An Odd Hypothetical Question
by bunsaur
Summary: Natasha's never seen a man braver than Tony Stark; unlike him she's got nothing to worry about after she loses the fight for that last breathe of air. But did she really have nothing, or rather no one, to miss? "Maybe that's why it's the best time." His words earlier today floated into her head then, and she understood. (Nat's/Clint's POV throughout IM2, Thor, and the Avengers.)
1. Chapter 1

**__****_Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and really just everything associated with it. Even the storyline is bent around these movies._**

Apologizing for any spelling/grammar mistakes beforehand.

Hope you all like, review/favorite if you want!

**UPDATED:** Minor changes made (8/16) (9/22)

* * *

_"How come everyone knows you before they meet you?"_

**_ - Drakkar Noir, Phoenix._**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Natasha's side complained with a short, abrupt pain as she drove another dagger into one of the target boards. The sharp motions teased open the wound under her right arm, fresh from her last mission two days ago and she felt new blood seep into her uniform.

She was not stopping anytime soon, though.

Natasha threw the remaining three silver-edged knives in her hand into the last vacant target before huffing forward to collect the blades. The bullet hole on her thigh throbbed with a slight ache from her abuse as she strode across the empty training room but she ignored it. A non-fatal shot to a limb is not going to prevent her from going back into action, S.H.I.E.L.D doctors be damned.

She positioned the retrieved daggers with their tips between her fingers and made her way back to her original spot. They were one of her most prized possessions: thin slivers of spring steel shaped like willow leaves that ended in graceful curved handles - beautiful and deadly like their mistress. Natasha brushed her fingers over the flat of a blade fondly and a second later the weapon was impaled deep into a target. She drank in the dull thud of metal sinking into wood and let the sound wash over her.

She flaunted along the length of the room and the cycle began again, the rhythm of her throwing in sync with the silent bass of her footsteps. Left, right, left right. The blades flew off her fingers towards one bulls-eye after another and Natasha's eyes grew wilder with each soft swoosh in her ears.

"I'm not even the slightest bit surprised that you're up and about at four in the morning." A quiet voice rumbled from behind her.

By instinct Natasha flipped the dagger in her hand to grasp the handle and whipped around to face...Clint.

With her blade inches from his throat and an unfazed look on his face.

"You're so caught up tearing the practice room apart, I've been standing there for minutes,"

Natasha frowned and drew back the dagger from his face. "I should have noticed you standing there."

"You should be giving your wounds a chance to heal if you want to be out of that hellhole soon."

Natasha's temper flared but she kept silent, for the moment.

He took her silence for stubbornness and brushed a hand against her injured side to hold up to her face. Wet blood glistened on his palm yet Natasha's stoic expression did not waver for a second. A bit of red is not going to worry her.

"This is not how you properly take care of yourself Natasha. You're bleeding onto your clothes." Clint let a sigh into his words.

"Don't try to baby me Clint, I feel fine."

_I hate her stupid threats so much_. Clint tried a different approach. "At least let me clean you up before you resume your little dance so it stops bleeding?" He motioned towards her side with his bloodied hand.

Natasha stared at him with an unreadable expression before nodding slightly. She walked to her locker and stashed away the weapons in her hands while Clint breathed out a relieved breath and pulled the knives from the target boards.

She blinked the training room goodbye. Clint tailed behind her, his clean hand making the faintest contact with the small of her back as he used the pressure to steer her towards his room.

Natasha stripped her suit off down to her hips as she dangled her legs off of the edge of Clint's bed. He sat beside her with a tray of soaked cotton balls and motioned for her to lift up her undershirt. Clint took a deep breath to calm his anger as he took in the mess of blood beneath the neglected bandage.

"This is unnecessary blood loss Nat, the gauze is_ soaked through_." He couldn't help but mumble as he wiped away the slick dark red from around the gash. She was still and silent as a rock but Clint knew she heard him. He decided to push his luck.

"You're going straight to bed after I fix you up."

Natasha jabbed him in the side. Shit - she knew exactly which rib was bruised the most. He grimaced as the pain hit him but he carried on, too late to stop now.

"Nat. It's almost five in the morning. We're meeting Coulson at nine. You really don't want to start off an assignment even more banged up than you already are." He paused his work on her side to look at her he spoke so she can see that he meant business.

She brushed it off with a scoff. "Just finish taping me up and let me go,"

"I said no."

"Clint, I don't want any of your shit right now."

"Then shut the hell up and listen to me. You can take the bed." He wiped down the last bit of blood and started to apply the antibiotic cream. Natasha was silent through the rest of the procedure and Clint took advantage of her rare compliant behavior to see to the rest of the injuries she riled up during her little session.

"I can go back to my own bed so you can keep yours," she tried feebly as Clint threw a pair of sweats into her lap and knew he didn't buy it when she heard his short, gruff chuckle.

"That is the worst lie I've ever heard from you Tasha. The moment I let you through my doors you're gonna bolt straight back to practice and start hurling knives at fifteen targets at the same time. You will imagine my face on the bulls-eyes and throw daggers so hard into them they go straight through the wood and into the wall. " Clint glanced at the clock on his nightstand before resuming, his tone flatter than ever.

"You're so dramatic."

"That's a lot coming from someone who breathes exaggeration. Just put the sweats on and try to rest, damn." He walked pass her into the bathroom to dispose the soiled first aid supplies.

Natasha groaned, and started to peel the skintight fabric off her lower half. At least she could lie down in a more comfortable place than her bright white room with the thick antiseptic smell in the air. She wriggled into the loose pants and fell onto the bed, her hair flying and settling on her face. Clint stopped by her on his way back to playfully bat the hair away from her features and offered her a small smile. Natasha wrinkled her nose at him before she kicked his thigh. He snorted and took a seat on a chair, grabbing a book—one of those stupid tourist manuals that he loved from the table and started reading.

She flipped over onto her stomach, ground her face into his pillow and prepared to wait out the hours.

* * *

Natasha woke to the sound of a ringing phone. _I__ actually fell asleep_. Surprised, she let the ringing continue for a while longer before picking it up off the bedside table and bringing it to her ear.

"Coulson," She said, twisting her legs into the blankets .

"Agent Romanoff? Where's Barton?"

"I don't know." she glanced around the space. Clint was nowhere to be seen.

"Then why do you have his phone?"

Silence. Natasha didn't know what to say. The stalemate continued on for another moment before she answered, "He left it with me."

"That's not helping."

Natasha clawed harder at the sheets with her free hand. What the hell did he want her to say?

"Coulson on the line?" Clint's voice drifted into the room, followed by a door slam. Natasha nodded and handed the phone over to her partner, relieved to end the conversation.

Clint pointed at her folded catsuit at the end of the bed and then to the bathroom, motioning for her to change while he nodded and uh-huh'ed at whatever Coulson was saying on the other end. Natasha picked up the suit and slipped her legs out of the tangle of sheets.

The upper right side of her suit was damp, she discovered as she stood in front of the sink. _Shouldn't the blood be dried already?_ She pressed two fingers into the fabric but they came away clean. She brought her fingers up to her nose and sniffed. Soap. He'd washed the blood off.

Outside, Clint raised his voice to end his handler's list of questions. "Coulson, get it in your head. I did NOT bail her out of recovery." Natasha heard a thud as he sprawled on the bed.

"Ok ok, we'll be there in a few. Bye." Footsteps, then a knock on the door. "You done yet Tasha? Phil wants us down early."

* * *

Phil Coulson stared at the two agents in front of him with equal impassive expressions on and cleared his throat.

"There's been a slight change regarding the mission you're to take today..."

Two pairs of eyebrows raised and Coulson knew they wanted him to get straight to the point. No point in nursing the words around. If they do decide to go firecracker a few well played sentences won't stop them. "The Director is re-assigning you, agent Romanoff to a special solo assignment in Stark Industries. You're not going to kill anyone, you're just going in to observe and report back information concerning Anthony Stark's mental and physical states to the Director for a period of time."

Romanoff's unimpressed face didn't change as she silently analysed that information in her head.

The man beside her shifted forward and rested his forearms against the table. "Why her? And why so sudden?" Barton said for them both.

"As her partner I am sure you are aware that agent Romanoff is one of our best spies. Stark appointed Pepper Potts as his chairman and CEO yesterday, which opens up the position of a new PA. Perfect chance for S.H.I.E.L.D to infiltrate."

"What about Barton?" Natasha asked.

"All the other available missions require partnered work, so he'll have the option of either pairing up with another lone agent or take some time off until you're finished with your work." Coulson offered. Clint looked at him suspiciously, They're giving him vacation? What's the world coming to?

Coulson must have sensed the question because he allowed a small smile and told him, "Barton, you've been in this business without an extra day of rest for seven years. S.H.I.E.L.D appreciates your devotion and it's only fair that we give you what you should have gotten a long time ago."

Clint acknowledged his words with a nod. He thought for a second before speaking again. "I'll take the vacation."

"Good, that settles everything. Agent Romanoff you're going to Stark's tomorrow morning, check in with me at 6 am before you head out. More details and instructions regarding the assignment is enclosed in this envelope. I hope you enjoy your downtime agent Barton, you're both excused." Coulson handed Natasha a standard S.H.I.E.L.D envelope and gestured with a hand towards the exit.

* * *

"Avengers Initiative? The hell is that?" Clint's voice echoed in the bathroom.

"Hold on, I'm reading about it." Natasha replied from her seat at his table after they'd wordlessly agreed to head back to his place. Not every agent had their own rooms at S.H.I.E.L.D but incessantly active teams like them were given quarters of their own, since the short expanse of time between one mission to the other for them could be as short as 6 hours: enough to go through debriefing and to catch up on sleep. It was more practical and efficient than renting or buying their own property.

"It's basically Fury's little plan to round up all the abnormal freaks in the world to be his little soldiers." Natasha summarized bluntly for him. The water started to run in the shower.

"Abnormal freaks as soldiers?" Clint laughed over the splutter of water. "I won't be surprised if our names are in there somewhere,"

"It only mentions Stark on here.."

"Tony Stark working for Fury? Forget it. He'd probably think Fury's after his suit. He loves that thing more than his own _woman_."

"The last time I checked he named Potts as his successor, not some stupid old armor."

"What did he say at that Senate Committee again? 'To turn over the Iron Man suit would be to turn over myself, which is tantamount to indentured servitude or prostitution.' Guy's got spunk." Clint quoted with admiration in his voice.

Natasha's lips twitched in a smug smile. "Are you a secret fan of Iron Man? I'll get his autograph for you," she teased.

"What's your alias?" He quickly changed the subject, and she rolled her eyes.

"Natalie Rushman."

Clint smiled to himself, "Nice ring to it, better than when they gave you Harriet Schmidt-Beck. I don't know why but that name gave me problems the entire mission."

"Can you be quiet while I read?"

The assignment itself was child's play for Natasha. She'd be going undercover as an existing employee for Stark. No kills, no manipulation, no interrogations like Coulson said. Afterwards she'll type up an overall assessment for Fury on his suitability as an Avenger and that was it.

It sounded incredibly boring.

It also sounded like something a newly spawned agent could do and she didn't understand why Fury had to pull a high level agent like her from a mission to do this thing.

Clint got out of the shower with a head of wet brown spike to get them breakfast from a bakery three blocks away because he avoided S.H.I.E.L.D food faster than bullets. His partner on the other hand didn't really care and ate almost anything. The Black Widow did not survive this long in the game by being finicky at the dinner table.

She'd still pick fresh baked goods over the slop they have in the dining hall though.

Natasha decided on a change of fresh clothes and walked out of Clint's room to her own. She smirked with triumph when she saw that the display screen on the card reader on her door was off. It was flashing the red ACCESS PROHIBITED message less than an hour ago. The doctors won't be after her now, not like her was scared of them in the first place, she felt as if she'd just gotten rid of an annoying pest.

After punching in the pass code to unlock the door (a totally unnecessary procedure for the same reasons as with the locker) Natasha started to strip off her suit as soon as the door slammed. She hastily folded the piece of clothing before reaching into her closet. She came away with a plain long-sleeved white blouse and a pair of black jeans, pulled herself through the holes and made her way back all in under two minutes.

Clint was already digging into a loaf of banana bread when she returned. The delicious smell of baked products and coffee flooded the small room and her eyes immediately settled on the promising brown paper bag next to him.

"Triple Chocolate Blueberry," He said through a voice muffled by bread as he watched her snatch the bag. Natasha smiled as she revealed the muffin and pulled a chair up for herself at the table.

"Thanks."

"No problem, the cup with the red stirrer's yours."

"Can't mistake it. I can smell the 5 packs of creamer you put in yours before it gets anywhere near my nose." Natasha said in a distracted tone as she peeled the paper liner away, nibbling at the crumbs on the edge.

"How would you know how much I put in anyways?"

"Start looking in the trash."

"That's just freaky Tasha."

Natasha ignored him and took a bite of the muffin. The thing was delicious. She closed her eyes for a second as she chewed and let the tang of the blueberries and the velvety chocolate caress her tongue for a second and somehow it boosted her unusually high spirits up another notch. She opened her eyes and swallowed.

"I'm in a good mood." She said out loud to her breakfast.

Clint almost choked on his bread at her plain statement.

"I bet it's because you slept like I told you to. You act less like a hormonal bitch in heat because you feel rested," He teased daringly.

A balled up paper bag smacked front and center into his face five seconds later.

* * *

Tony's up in the next chapter, that should be out in a few days :) Thanks for the read!


	2. Chapter 2

_********__Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and really just everything associated with it. Even the storyline is bent around these movies._

Apologizing for any spelling/grammar mistakes beforehand.

Hope you all like, review/favorite if you want!

* * *

_"His pass checkered like checkerboards in Central Park_

_You do good in the light and the bad in the dark_

_Good men are scarce and few_

_They're always passing through"_

**_-Mirrored Sea, Passion Pit_**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

"Are you gonna just stay at base the whole time?"

"Nah, I'll walk around or something."

"I'll take that you plan to eat the entire city."

A short laugh on Clint's end of the call, "Maybe. But really though, what am I supposed to do?"

"Did you really call me to discuss your recreational hours? I'm flying out to LA in less than twenty minutes and I still need to pack." Natasha said a bit louder into the direction of the phone as she double checked the array of equipment and weaponry on her. "Plus you've got the wrong person. I don't know a shit about that kind of thing either."

She picked up the phone from on top of her drawer to switch off speaker mode and put it to her ear. The volume she has to raise her voice to for him to be able to hear her through speakers was disturbingly loud, and her instincts flared in suspicion that someone might be listening in on the other side of the door. But nobody ever stops outside her door except for Clint (and maybe Coulson) so it was more to just settle her nerves.

"Have fun in Malibu, don't you _dare_ forget to change your dressings. And really Tasha? Not a single idea?"

"Yes. Go have tea with Fury, I'm heading out." Natasha said flatly. Her vexatious duckling of a partner always chose the worst times ever to stick his nosy beak into her head.

"Wow."

"Bye Clint." She didn't wait for his reply and ended the call. She glanced at the top of the display screen: 5:56 am. She hurriedly threw a few articles of clothing into a backpack already brimming with back-up ammunition, stun guns, switchblades, and the like. Natasha had learned from less than pleasant past experiences to never underestimate the level of threat of a job no matter how effortless it might sound. She skimmed over the company details and stats from her assignment packet once more before she stuffed the papers in an outer compartment of the bag, slung it over a shoulder and walked out the door.

* * *

Natasha knocked on Coulson's door, waited for his short "come in" before she entered. He beckoned her to take a seat and got right down to business.

"Agent Romanoff. I won't keep you here for long since your jet is waiting, but just a few more words on Stark. We need you to pay special attention to his physical condition. You remember his arc reactor, yes?"

Natasha nodded in recognition. It was all over the news half a year ago, Tony Stark and his Iron Man suit, powered by that electric generator. Even people at base started wearing his name around on a daily basis.

"We believe that the palladium core he uses to power his suit might be slowly poisoning his body." Coulson said.

Natasha furrowed her brows slightly, "But I thought it's what's keeping him alive,"

"It's dragging out his days, if that's easier to understand."

"Are there no other attainable substitutes for the palladium?"

"Not that we know of, him too for that matter."

Natasha leaned back on her chair, it sounded like as if S.H.I.E.L.D's already got a pretty good profile on the man. She was still lost on what she is supposed to find when there's nothing else to look for.

"The agency seems to have already gathered quite the data on Stark, I don't see how my meager contribution would be any help." She voiced her thoughts out loud.

"We're unsure about the speed that the poison is killing him at, plus it's not all about his health, Romanoff. He's got to be the right kind of man at heart and as a witness I can say you're a pretty good judge on character."

Natasha's eyebrow raised. What is he on about?

"I was referring to agent Barton, but we're going offtrack." He said with mild sentiment in his voice. Natasha shifted in her seat uncomfortably before trying to jump back into their previous topic. She didn't like talking about Clint with others.

"Does Director Fury want details on Stark's..._ Individuality_?"

Her handler nodded in confirmation. "It would be helpful, yes. The Director's got an inkling on how to help him with the heart problem so it'll be good to know who the man really is behind his suit and fame."

"I understand. And Coulson? I don't like the sound of this 'Avengers Initiative' business, whatever it is I feel like it'll just be trouble in the future." Natasha glared at the man across from her. The minimal, vague description they offered in her mission packet left had left her in a state of unease yesterday. "There's more agents monitoring the other 'potential assets' are there not?" She pressed on more forcefully.

Coulson held her stare with that same professional look on his face and replied, "As a field operative Romanoff this is not something I'm supposed to discuss in further detail with you. Just focus on the job and get back here before Barton commits suicide from off-mission boredom. You're free to go." His polished no-nonsense look wavered for a second as he rubbed his eyes. He gathered a random stack of papers to look over as a silent dismissal for the fuming agent in front of him.

Natasha shot up from her seat, smashed her gear bag onto her back and stormed out of the room with promises of violence crawling around her body. Coulson blinked as she stomped away, wishing her pilot luck as he'll need to grow a pair in the next minute or so.

Because when the Black Widow actually makes noise in her movements she is beyond redemption.

* * *

Three and a half hours later Natasha's jet landed on the FBO of Los Angeles International Airport. She stalked out of her flight without a word to the pilot, who's hands was still slightly shaking as they had been the entire time in the air. She was directed to the car she'd take for the 35 miles to Malibu and an hour later arrived at the hotel room arranged for her at the Malibu Country Inn.

She had thirty minutes to prepare before showing up at Stark's at 8 am. She stepped into a pair of loose fitting black pants, tucked her white shirt in and looped a belt around her waist. Her combat boots came off, replaced by black heels. The flowing fabric of the pants did well to conceal the number of gadgets and small knives she'd transferred over from her uniform. Two guns were strapped to her hips because_ just in case_. Natasha tamed her wild springy curls into more professional, groomed waves, brushed on a soft shade of lipstick and in fifteen minutes she'd transformed from a cold reserved agent into the soft, domestic looking Natalie Rushman. Attitude, looks and all.

Natasha slipped on the in-ear sound amplifiers, the rippling curls framing her face helped to conceal the bit of metal that showed. They'd enable her to detect any sounds clearly from up to forty feet away, perfect for listening in on any hushed conversations Stark might be having without being up in his face. The device also serves as a two way communication link from her to Coulson. Natasha turned it on as she walked out of the hotel and a moment later her handler's voice sounded in her ear.

"Agent Romanoff, report location and status."

"I just left the hotel, on my way to Stark's and will be there in five minutes."

"Good, alert me if there's anything urgent or special that I should take note of."

"Of course. What's Barton up to?"

"I haven't seen him around."

"Nevermind then." Natasha said, Clint's been tugging at the back of her mind the entire morning. She wondered what he could be doing, probably frolicking with his bow and arrows and eating insane amounts of bread. She shook her head to kick him back into a dark corner of her thoughts since there's work to be done.

* * *

Natasha sensed before she saw the pair of sharp blue eyes following her as she drove through the wounding road leading to the Stark mansion. There were no parking lot or garage in sight so she stopped her ride next to the circular patch of vegetation by the front door.

A strawberry blonde woman stood behind the glass doors with her hands behind her back. She eyed the shorter redhead with an analytical look as Natasha approached, her high heels clicking a soft staccato on the concrete ground.

Virginia Potts was no ordinary woman.

The newly appointed CEO stepped forward to open the door as Natasha drew closer and the two exchanged a reserved smile.

"Ms. Potts, it's an honor to meet you," Natasha said in the clipped, brisk tone she'd chose for her character as Natalie. It wasn't far from her natural way of speaking, just a tad warmer and more welcoming. She reached out with her right hand and was greeted with a warm and firm shake.

"Welcome to the circus, Ms. Rushman. I'll give you a brief tour of the place and then we can get to the paperworks." Potts' smile widened a fraction as she spoke before turning around to lead her through the palace of a home.

_Circus_. Natasha's mind involuntarily dug Clint up from her mental timeout cage and she had to resist shaking her head again as she followed behind the lady in front. _What the hell?_ Her brain betrayed her and did a five second replay of a bright summer day in Miami with her partner, hugging tall cups of ice cold chocolate milkshakes as they sat in the sand, waiting for their target to appear and he'd told her of his childhood in the circus almost nonchalantly, the way he gnawed his straw to threads the only evidence that he was affected by it at all.

Clint was never one for attention and scenes, he doesn't make a fuss about his own suffering because he knows that Natasha will always top it with something Red Room. She had opened her mouth to try to share something from her past with him that day but when her mind shut down and she was left looking like a goldfish gulping for air, he'd shook his head at her, smiled, and nudged the milkshake in her hands to her lips.

His was the only kind comfort she'd ever take.

Natasha took a deep breath to collect her thoughts and chained the treacherous memories down, she couldn't afford to look suspicious in front of someone as sharp as her guide. She nodded and ok'ed at the locations Potts pointed out as they went along before she was led into a spacious office room.

"This used to be mine a few days ago, I cleaned up a bit but the business things are still all here. Do you need me to point them out for you?" The CEO asked, leaning on a desk. Natasha took in her workspace before replying.

"I can manage, but thank you for the kind offer."

"Let's get the transfer issues out of the way first. You know how to handle the paperwork?"

"Yes,"

"Splendid. I'll announce your arrival to Mr. Stark in a bit. We'll be in the room to the right of the living room, just bring the papers when you're done filling them out, ok? And the other tasks for the day should be in a file on the computer desktop." The taller woman smiled again before walking out.

Natasha sat down in the swivel chair and in few minutes acquainted herself with the work. She filled out the packet of legal papers quickly before snapping them back into a 3 pronged binder and headed out in the direction the other woman had told her to go. She reached up to her ear to turn on the amplifying mode of her earpiece and her hearing instantly sharpened. The sound of fists and grunting became more prominent as she approached.

"The notary's here! Can you please come sign the transfer paperworks?" Pepper's voice had shed the professionalism and in its place was a commanding mixture of fondness and irritation. The change was drastic to Natasha ears, and she found herself comparing the two with Clint and herself. The tone in this CEO's voice was almost identical to how she sounded when she's alone with her partner. Interesting. She stopped walking to try to see what else she'll say but Potts went silent.

"I'm on Happy's count!" A masculine voice, one that she's heard a million times on television replied back tightly before the rain of punches returned. A painful grunt was heard a few seconds later and a banter broke out.

"Sorry," Stark's said.

"What the hell was that?!" Another male voice whom Natasha gathered to be their bodyguard Happy Hogan shot out.

"It's called mixed martial arts, it's been around for three... weeks-"

"It's called dirty boxing, there's nothing new about it!" Hogan cut him off, his angry voice drifted down from around the corner. Natasha raised an eyebrow and gripped her binder harder, _the hell is going on?_ She resumed her walk and was greeted with the sight of two men practicing their punches in a small boxing ring.

The bodyguar noticed her first and his anger immediately slackened upon seeing a pretty face. Stark caught onto his stare almost instantly and turned, giving her a quizzical eye. Natasha deliberately stopped, adjusted the files on her hip, and shot them an unimpressed look before walking towards Potts who was standing in front of a chair, her phone in hand.

This is the guy who'd basically_ pissed_ on the senate and the military? Without his suit and tie and his charismatic onstage presence, he was just another little man in a black hoodie play-fighting and gawking at her. Sure he's still a Einstein, but Natasha couldn't help being a bit disappointed.

"I promise you this is the only time I will ask you to sign over your company," Pepper strained, she saw Natasha approach with the papers and smiled, her whole stance shifting again.

"I need you to initial each box," Natasha said, offering a pen and leaning the binder her way. Stark was still eyeing her.

"Lesson one: never take your eye off -" Hogan started again before he was slammed into a corner of the ring by his opponent. "That's it, I'm done." Stark muttered under his breath.

She raised her eyes to the men as her boss scribbled away and found that his annoying stare was still on her.

"What's your name, lady?" He asked while pointing a rude finger at her.

_Piece of shit at mannerisms_, she began her mental report of him.

"Rushman, Natalie Rushman." Natasha replied smoothly, keeping her irritation just under her skin.

"Front n' center, come into the church." He waved his outreached hand towards the ring.

"No, you're seriously not gonna-" Pepper sounded exasperated.

"If it please the Court, which it does."

"It's no problem," Natasha reassured the flustered woman beside her with a small smile before walking towards him.

"I'm sorry, he's very... _eccentric_." Pepper apologized behind her.

_Oh no, don't apologize_. Natasha's eyes flashed as she stepped. _I might get to beat up this bag of dicks on my first day of work, how thrilling._ Iron Man without the iron is just a man and she can handle any man in the world with a bonus of severely battered self-admiration.

Stark held apart the ropes for her as she stepped out of her heels and onto the ring, the polite gesture ruined by the bottle that hung off the side of his mouth. His eyes were glued to the ground, deliberately not looking at her. Natasha forced him into it with the same aloof gaze she had on earlier and Stark had to stick his bottle into his mouth to distract himself from her piercing look. He took a swig of the green liquid before opening his mouth again.

"What?"

Natasha schooled her features into something softer and allowed the corners of her lips to twitch up. Stark's eyes dropped in an instant, smiled like a shy schoolboy before stealing another glance at her. _This one is weak,_ Natasha mused,_ he can't even hold it for five seconds._

"Can you give her a lesson?" He told Hogan._ Looks like I'm not beating the bastard up,_ she sighed quietly.

"No problem." The meaty bodyguard said with a glint in his eyes. Natasha struggled to keep her face impassive as he looked over her body with his piggy eyes and directed most of her attention on the conversation going on fifteen feet away.

"Who is she?"

"She is from legal, and she is potentially a _very_ expensive _sexual harassment lawsuit_ if you keep ogling her like that."

"I need an assistant boxer, I need an assistant." Stark defended.

"Yes, and I have three excellent potential candidates that are lined up and ready to beat you."

"I don't have time to meet them. I need someone now, I feel like it's her."

"No it's not."

Their conversation dropped at that so Natasha started to pay attention to what Hogan was saying.

"You ever boxed before?"

"I have, yes." She finally allowed a multi-syllable answer.

"Like Tae Bo? Booty Boot Camp? Crunch? Something like that?" His face contorted into the arrogant male smirk that she's seen on countless men. Natasha's blood boiled at his offensive assumptions and cleared her throat loudly to voice her irritation.

"How do I spell your name, Natalie?" Stark asked from behind her.

"R-U-S-H-M-A-N." She spelled out for him. She knew exactly what he's going to do with that information.

As predicted, he called up a screen and flipped through a list of profiles until he found hers.

"What are you gonna google her now?" The woman next to him grounded out in hushed tones as she stared straight ahead.

"Hmm? I thought I was ogling her-Oh, wow. Very, _very_ impressive individual..." Natasha heard the hint of surprise in his voice as he looked through her files. "You're so predictable, you know that?" Potts muttered.

Stark ignored her and continued, "She's fluent in French, Italian, Russian, _Latin_... Who speaks Latin?"

"No one speaks Latin, it's a dead language. You can read Latin or you can write Latin but you can't speak Latin so-" she was interrupted again by him as he breathed out a _dang_ and Natasha caught onto what he was staring at.

_Who sneaked her Tokyo photoshoot into her alias' file?_

The man was going to say something stupid.

Wait for it.

"Did you model in Tokyo? Cause she modeled in Tokyo."

...

_Spectacular_, she muttered under her breath.

"No." Came Pepper's cold reply. Natasha turned around to catch a glimpse of their faces.

"I need her, she's got everything that I need."

The bastard just kept jeopardizing her position. At this rate Pepper will have her out the door in a few hours and she can wave bye-bye to the world's easiest assignment and fly her shameful ass back to New York.

She didn't catch what Hogan said but reacted out of instinct as she felt a fist charge towards her face. Her hand shot out to twist his wrist sharply downward, using the contact as leverage she flipped herself around, latched her legs around his neck and brought him down with her weight, locking his head in place and pressing his arm down with her torso.

"OH MY _GOD!_" Potts screamed as she flew off her seat. "HAPPY!" Stark sped in front of her and pointed at Natasha again, "That's what I'm talking about," he said.

"Just a slip," Hogan stumbled up from the ground, a thread of fear showed in his eyes as he glanced at the weak-looking woman who had just knocked him to the ground.

"You did? Looks like TKO to me." Stark said with a grin on his face as he ringed the bell. Meanwhile Natasha breathed deeply to take in what she had done. Made the CEO jealous, banged up their bodyguard, all in under an hour. At this point the only reason she'd be staying is because Stark wanted her to, what a great way to start day 1. She took another big breath of air before leveling out her expression and attempting to get back to business.

"Just- um, I need your impression." She started.

"You have... Quiet reserve, I don't know, you've been- "

"I meant your_ fingerprint_."

"Right."

Pepper must have smelled the awkward tension and decided to step in, "so, how're we doing?" She gave Stark a pointed look.

"Great... Just half done. Hey, you're the boss." He pointed at the fresh fingerprint on the documents. Natasha swiftly closed the binder as soon as he was done. She was ready to bolt out of here.

"Would that be all, Mr. Stark?"

"No" "Yes" They responded at the same time. "That would be all, Ms. Rushman thank you_ very_ much." It was Potts' turn to break off his words. The smile she gave Natasha was almost blinding and the agent took off as fast as her heels allowed her, feeling Stark's gaze behind her.

"I want one." She heard him say as she walked out of his sight.

"No."

Natasha beelined for her office, closed the door behind her and just sat in her swivel chair for a while. Twirling herself around with her feet she tried to pinpoint why she had lost her cool back there. It was rare for her to drop her character so much that she actually attacks someone, she was perfectly capable of just deflecting Hogan's punch instead of bringing him to the ground in an aggressive move. When she found no answers in herself she turned to the computer and looked over the list of things she's supposed to get done by day's end. Might as well get things done. She booked them rooms in Hotel de Paris for the annual Grand Prix of Monaco tomorrow, took care of the flights for the trip and answered a few phonecalls. She looked into the company's spendings and her eyes rounded.

"Well shit..." She murmured to herself as she stared at the records. Stark was handing out money and contracts left and right and to every organization imaginable. She scrolled down the list: The Food Bank, The Clean Water Project, The Plastic Plantation Tree Project, the World Wildlife Fund, the... _Boy Scouts of America?_

She was still reading into the accounts ten minutes later when a noise floated into her ear and broke the silence.

"HeeeEEEeeEeEEEeeeEEEEeeeey,"

Natasha tensed. That voice...

_... No fucking way..._

She glanced at the door quickly to make sure its closed before she whispered into the empty room.

"Barton, what the fuck?"

* * *

Where's Clint? WHERE'S CLIIIIIINT

(Note the 3 hour ((is it 3?)) difference in time between California and New York hence the 8 am thing when it should be 11.)

Thanks for the read!


	3. Chapter 3

_********__Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and really just everything associated with it. Even the storyline is bent around these movies._

A/N: More Natasha and Clint in this chapter. And can I just say that while watching scenes from IM2 at least 20 times over in order to describe it in the story I've noticed a lot of small, fun little details? Oh the joys. I hope you all notice it in the writing!

Apologizing for any spelling/grammar mistakes beforehand.

Hope you all like, review/favorite if you want!

* * *

_"The truth is she doesn't need me to protect her_

_We know the true death — the true way of all flesh_

_Everyone's dying but girl — you're not old yet."_

**_-Step, Vampire Weekend._**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

"Aw, you're still jittery. Thought you calmed down by now after almost an hour of silence," Natasha could see the grin on his face in her head.

"You hacked your way into my intercom. Did you expect me to me to greet you hello and ask about your fucked up day?"

"I'm pretty sure I'm not the one having the fucked up day. Mine's been lovely so far."

"Yeah whatever. How long have you been listening in?" She ignored his comments and asked.

"When you started spelling out your name, was he looking you up?"

_At least he could only hear what I was saying. The small blessings._

"Something like that... Now will you please disconnect and not stalk me as I work? We're not on a mission so stop getting all up in my head." Natasha said louder. It was a command for both big Clint as well as the little Clint in her mind.

"You're on a mission right now," he countered.

"I said _we_. If you still want ideas on what to do please go entertain yourself with paintball arrows, play the training room rules to the edge, buy Coulson flowers for the love of God. I don't care. _Out_." Natasha rolled the scroll wheel of the mouse under her hand as fast as humanly possible. The page in front of her shook up and down at rapid speeds but she wasn't looking at them anymore, she'd stopped paying attention to the screen right after her partner's queer entrance.

"Touchy. But fine, catch you later when your hair isn't frying up." Clint teased.

_Something's up,_ Natasha thought to herself. _He's giving in too easily._

"How would I know if you're not still here?" She questioned suspiciously.

"You can ask Coulson, I didn't exactly try to hide my tracks from him."

"He knows about this and he's _letting you?!"_ Natasha was on the brink of yelling.

"There's no list telling me the do's and don'ts for vacation time so he couldn't exactly stop me,"

She swore she could _hear_ his stupid smirk grow wider.

"You are so dead when I see your face. I'm going to slice your ribs apart one by one, rub them with salt and then throw them on a grill." She warned.

"You do that, Tasha. What an appetizing threat." Clint batted off her threat with ease and turned his speakers off.

"Considering the type of place you'll be in when you see me next time you might want to take that back. You don't exactly want to fry me up in the middle of a motor race, public commotion is not your thing." Clint said to himself as he opened up a schedule of Stark's meetings and conventions for the month. Bingo.

He lifted the overheating laptop from his thighs to place it on the table and dialed a familiar number.

"Agent Barton?"

"I'm leaving for a day or two."

"Where to?"

"Monaco."

"I feel like you wouldn't want me to poke at the details. Is this about Romanoff?"

Clint shrugged, "I have a feeling something's gonna go to shit tomorrow,"

"You're acting protective which is stupid because she is perfectly adept at protecting herself."

"No, Phil it's my duty to-"

"Don't get too attached Clint, if we let her off on a solo mission with danger level at 7% and you're already fretting I don't know how you're going to survive if something does happen one day." Coulson massaged a thumb into his temple, hearing Clint's mushy possessive blabbing always gave him a headache. "She's had it worse before you and on her own and she pulled through long enough to land into your stupid sight. So stop worrying for God's sake."

"Phil, listen-" Why was he lecturing and not letting him speak?

"Nope. Not listening. You can fly wherever you want. Go join the Prix for all I care. But get this in your thick head Barton: _Don't get too fond of her._ She doesn't exactly have a long life expectancy hanging above her head. All you agents don't. You're here one day and gone the next. As prickly as she is I don't want you to cry when the inevitable hits."

Clint snorted, "I've never seen another agent cry when their partner dies Phil,"

"Because no one's gone as far down as you. Trust me Clint you will."

"Can I hang up now?" Their mostly one-sided conversation was getting wearisome.

"One more thing, she's going to strangle you."

"Uh-huh. Bye Phil."

"Bye Clint."

* * *

Arrows whizzed pass his cheek as Clint sent them tearing into a dummy at a pace that would have made a regular archer's blood drain, the poor thing looked like a human sized porcupine after ten minutes of his abuse. He had stopped aiming at the vitals a long time ago, finding a vacant spot for his arrowheads to dig into was a lot more challenging at this point. He mentally speared all the crap clogging his head onto each arrow tip and imagined them flying away from him as he let go of the bowstring.

Clint reached a hand back like he had done countless times but found no more shafts to grab. He'd exhausted the training room's supply.

Slinging the bow over his shoulder he took a few minutes to pull them out, six quivers worth of standard S.H.I.E.L.D arrows. He ached for his customized quiver and arrowheads but those were forbidden to use outside the field. He'd take the paintball ones that Natasha brought up but that would make a mess and Clint wasn't keen on cleaning up. He left the arrows on a bench, collapsed his bow and put it away in its case. The little demons he impaled into the dummy immediately rushed back into his head. It didn't work.

It was not often that archery failed to quieten his concerns.

He couldn't place his worries himself, maybe it's because her mission sounds _too_ safe to be_ really_ safe. It was prone to backfire in some twisted way or the other and the more he thought on it the more logical it seemed and the more restless he became.

Phil would have never believed him anyway even if he had listened, he trusted the numbers and in his point of view a 7% chance of getting killed for the average agent was well below the negatives for Natasha. But for Clint that percentage meant nothing. The 7 could bounce up to a 70 in a matter of seconds.

He'd gone on missions with fatality levels up in the 90's with Natatsha and felt less troubled than he did now. At least then he could look out for her and not just _sit there_. When you're in action yourself you do not worry, you jump into the fray and kill bad guys until you've reached your objective. Worrying is the one way to get yourself killed in the game so he doesn't. But this, _this is driving him insane._

Clint gathered his gear and left.

* * *

Natasha paced back and forth between the lobby and dining areas of their hotel in Monaco as she waited for Tony and Pepper to arrive.

She was brewing with impatience after 2 hours of conversing with business owners, magazine journalists and interviewers who's all pushing to get some details on Stark while hitting on her at the same time. It took all the concentration she could muster to keep her irritation down and her Natalie face up, and even more to not hitch up her dress then and there to pull a blade on someone.

Natasha glanced up at a tiny clock on the wall. Another 15 minutes before they're scheduled to arrive.

She figured she'll go sit down for a bit when she laid eyes on a man who had just walked into the bustling room, his suit-clad back was to her but she'd recognize that peculiar spring in his steps anywhere. Natasha sat down on the couch behind her and shoved a random book in front of her face.

It wasn't that she didn't want to be near him - God she was relieved at seeing a familiar face who could hold a conversation without glancing down at her chest. She just didn't want to bring herself to him, that would hurt her pride a bit too much.

He noticed her as soon as he turned, the hair and the posture gave her away. Clint excused himself from the waiter he was talking to and walked towards her. She had _Monaco Grand Prix: A photographic portrait of the world's most prestigious motor race_ shoved up her nose.

As if she ever reads that kind of stuff. As if she reads _at all._

Clint pressed down the laughter rolling in his throat at the odd combination of irked Natasha, feigned concentration and a _book_ out of all things.

"You can put that down now you know, found you." He said easily as he sank down beside her, snickering when he saw her blank unseeing eyes on the page.

"I don't know what I should say to you for showing up here." She said into a picture of a red and white Marlboro race car.

"You can start with 'hi'"

Natasha clapped her book close, chucked it back where she found it and turned towards her partner. Clint had on the standard black suit and bowtie, his spiky hair was gelled and lightly combed back, and he rested his elbows on his knees as he held a half-eaten roll of bread in his hands like a chipmunk would hold a seed.

"Where did you find a baguette?" She raised an eyebrow.

"It's a big hotel." Clint flashed her a happy smile and tore off another chunk of the chewy dough. "These are way better than the ones they have in the states, want some?" He held it out to her. Natasha stared at the wheat colored roll he offered for a moment and leaned in to bite off a small mouthful, the hard crust made a satisfying _crunch_ as she chewed.

"You smudged your lipstick on it..." Clint complained.

"What, you want to me lick it off for you?"

Silence. Then Clint stared into the milky white dough and whispered to himself, _"That's what she said,"_

A casual jab to his side a second later had him hissing in pain and Clint jerked his head around to the unconcerned woman next to him. "Natasha!" He growled through gritted teeth. "Ribs!"

"They're still bruised? Too bad." She muttered and glanced at the clock again, 10:52 am. Stark should be here in 8 minutes.

Clint was darting his archer eyes around the room as if searching for something, he looked distracted.

"Who are you looking for?" Natasha asked, when he didn't answer something hit her. "Wait, are you on your own mission?" She narrowed her eyes.

"Nah," He dropped his eyes and inspected the bumps on the baguette.

Odd, but Natasha didn't push him. She stood up, patted her dress down and pressed a hand into Clint's shoulder.

"Stark's about to be here, I'd better get going." She said gently. He looked up at her, seemed to remember something and pulled a pair of earpieces from his pocket, "Use these, they have voice isolators on them, much better for your ears." he said holding them out to her. Natasha smiled and took them from his hands. "Thanks."

She walked towards the front door, exchanging a few inevitable words with the folks around her and allowed herself to be talked into letting a shy photographer take pictures of Tony when he arrives. The little man tailed behind her the rest of the way with his camera in hand.

Stark was talking to Pepper when Natasha saw them entering with Happy trailing behind them, a compacted Iron Man suit in his hands.

"Mr. Stark." She greeted.

"Hey," He answered, taking his shades off. The nicest gesture Natasha's seen him do since their first meeting.

"Hello, how was your flight?"

"It was excellent, oh it's nice to see you," His courteous side slipped right on. The couple took the drinks an eager waiter offered but Natasha took them off theirs hands right away.

"We have one photographer from the ACM if you don't mind, ok?" She nodded a cue to the cameraman behind her and stepped aside as he snapped their photos.

"Stop acting constipated, don't inflate your nostrils," Natasha heard him say through his teeth as he tried to pose for the picture and as Pepper tried to talk to him. Apparently he was still the same blunt man around his girlfriend.

"Right this way," She guided them towards the table she had reserved.

"Thanks. You look fantastic." The man straight up _walked off_ on Potts to follow after her.

"Why thank you very much."

"But that's unprofessional, what's on the docket?"

"We have a 9:30 dinner,"

"Perfect, I'll be there at 11. Is this ours?" He asked pointing at a quiet corner, throwing a wary glance in the direction of the table Natasha originally planned for them. There was a flock of people situated in the bar right next to it, he must be avoiding someone.

"It can be," She replied.

"Great. Make it ours."

"Ok." Natasha turned to the same waiter who offered them the beverages. "Excuse me sir, is this table vacant? Mr. Stark would like a switch."

"No problem, where was he situated before?"

"The big table right in front of the bar,"

"I'll arrange it for him, must not fancy the crowds all the time eh?"

"I reckon not." Natasha smiled politely before excusing herself. _What a pile of dog shit. Stark loves the attention._

She followed in his direction, trying to not make it look like she was tailing him on purpose and listened to what he was saying. The voice isolators were wonderful, allowing her to focus in on only Stark's and anyone within a 2 feet radius's voices.

He was offering to have "Natalie" fix a massage appointment for Pepper but she declined swiftly with an unhappy "I don't want Natalie to do anything." Stark went on to jab at her a few more lines before a new voice perked up.

"Anthony, is that you?" _Sly and slippery. This must be who he's avoiding._ Natasha thought.

"My least favorite person on Earth, Justin Hammer." Stark said in the most unenthusiastic tone possible. Her hypothesis hit a home run.

"How ya doin'? You're not the only rich guy here with a fancy car!" Hammer continued on with fake cheer smothering his face, pretending not to notice that Tony was trying to ignore him and landed a hand on his back.

He called over a girl from Vanity Fair to chitchat and Stark nodded along listlessly for the sake of courtesy. Pepper finally had enough and left the scene for the bathroom, leaving her flailing man behind with what looked like to be the biggest pain in his ass. Said pain in the ass slung an arm around Tony's neck as soon as Pepper was out of the camera's way and the photographer in front of them shot forward to snap pictures. Christine Everhart from Vanity decided to jump him with her recorder right at that moment to press him with questions.

"Oh, _God_ that's so awful." Tony said to himself, Natasha agreed and even sympathized with him for a moment. The episode playing out in front of her reeked of nothing but extreme discomfort.

"Is our table ready?" She asked the same waiter who just passed by.

"For Mr. Stark? Yes ma'am, it is."

_Let's get him out of that mess,_ Natasha thought to herself as she walked up to the table the trio just settled in.

"Mr. Stark?" She rested a palm on the back of his chair.

Tony started to stand up as soon as he heard the voice of his savior. "Yes?"

"Your corner table is ready."

"Thank God," He grumbled under his breath and practically jogged behind the redhead. "Hammer needs a slot!" He shot back before resuming his escape.

* * *

Stark barely glanced at their new table before heading off to the bathroom, rubbing his forehead tiredly as he went. His other hand, Natasha noticed was playing with a small metal box in his pocket.

_Of course, the headaches that came with the palladium poisoning. I'll need to get my hands on that meter soon or I'll have nothing to report to Coulson about._

When he came back a few minutes later Natasha purposely bumped against him and flicked the scanner out of his pocket with practiced fingers. He didn't notice, hastily apologized and whipped away, his eyes glowering with a sense of purpose that unnerved her.

Natasha walked into the ladies' room after he left and locked herself inside a stall. She turned on the blood meter she stole and stiffened.

**BLOOD TOXICITY: 53%**

He's pretty much half dead.

She adjusted the settings on the side of the scanner to a few days back and another percentage appeared.

**BLOOD TOXICITY: 19%**

He's dying real quick too.

Natasha tucked the medical scanner into a secret pocket on the underside of her dress hem and turned her communication on.

"Coulson."

"Romanoff,"

"I have information regarding the rate that the poison is spreading," She whispered. A public bathroom was not the best place to be relaying messages to S.H.I.E.L.D but she had to make do.

"Yes and?"

"His contamination level is currently at 53% when it was only 19% less than a week ago. If Director Fury plans on interfering I suggest he do so within the next few days or Stark will be out of time."

"I will get that to him. Thank you agent."

"Going offline." Natasha said and walked out to find her partner.

* * *

She found him not far from where she left 30 minutes ago, chatting up a young blonde and balancing a bubbling glass of champagne. The girl was laughing at whatever he was saying and brushed a flirty hand on his arm as she giggled like a 4 year old. _Repulsive_. Natasha's eyes cemented immediately and something dangerously close to possessiveness threatened to take over. She kept her posture relaxed as she clicked her heels towards them and flashed the other woman an alarmingly bright smile before tugging on Clint's sleeve.

"Time to go, Barton," She said in Natalie's business voice as she pulled him away from the blonde.

"Sorry, got an appointment to catch!" Clint waved. Natasha felt like stapling his lips shut.

"Bye Steve!" The girl waved back, unfazed.

Natasha let his sleeve slip out of her fingers and moved her hand up to the glass of champagne. She was parched after talking for almost 3 hours. The weak bubbly alcohol tingled her throat and nose uncomfortably as it went down and she shoved the glass back into his hand. How do people stand this stuff?

"At least you knew to not use your real name," She said, dropping her Natalie face and voice.

"I'm not that stupid, you know?"

"Funny, I was starting to doubt that."

"What? Cause I was talking to some girl?"

"No."

"Yeah, you should have seen yourself back there," Clint grinned as he nibbled the rim of the glass and then tipped it over for a sip.

"I was well-mannered and composed, I don't see what you're trying to get at."

"That's exactly what I'm getting at. You were using your Natalie face. You were treating her like a mark."

"She's not to be trusted," Natasha defended, fanning her eyes out over the dining area. Why was everyone staring at the walls?

"Yeah right, Nat you need to stop trying to slick your way over every-"

"Shut up and watch the screen." Natasha cut him off with a growl as she stared at a flat screen TV over on their left.

Tony Stark had changed out of his formal clothes and into a blue racing suit with his last name branded in white across his chest. Behind him was the racing circuit for the Prix.

_..._

_"Well what's the use of having and owning a race car if you don't drive it?"_

_..._

* * *

Whiplash is up next!

And I dunno, I have a thing for Clint and bread haha

Thanks for the read!


	4. Chapter 4

**__****_Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and really just everything associated with it. Even the storyline is bent around these movies._**

A/N: Gotta say... Live fast die young Tony Stark does it well. (I HAD TO DO THAT LINE I WAS WAITING TO SINCE THE BEGINNING OF THIS STORY)

Apologizing for any spelling/grammar mistakes beforehand.

Hope you all like, review/favorite if you want!

* * *

_"They couldn't think of something to say the day you burst_

_With all the lions with all their might and all their thirst_

_They crowd your bedroom like some thoughts wearing thin_

_Against the walls, against your rules, against you skin."_

**_- Sleepyhead, Passion Pit._**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Natasha was bewildered. Is he _driving?_ A couple of whoops and cheers went off around her, no doubt coming from Stark's supporters. Her focus faltered as she snapped an annoyed look at the clusters of people before turning back to the screen.

Tony had just waved the original driver off with a cocky flick of his wrist. The other man angrily flung his helmet to the ground before lumbering out of the camera's vision and Stark stepped into the Formula 1.

"Natalie, Natalie!" Pepper's grave voice beckoned her from two tables away, and Natasha realized that she and Clint had unintentionally gravitated towards this part of the room in their wandering. Sweeping a hand over her companion's side in a silent _wait here_ Natasha scampered forward towards the horrified woman.

"Yes Ms. Potts?" She said a little breathlessly.

"Did you know about this?" Her intense stare bore into her face, desperate for an answer.

"Uh... This is the first time I've known of it," Natasha replied, almost stumbling over her own words.

They watched the driver's list change in front of them together, confirming Tony's spot in the race.

"This...this cannot happen." Pepper's voice allowed no alternatives.

"AbsolutelyIunderstandhowcanIhelpyou?" Natasha's syllables dribbled over each other as she spoke. Pepper's frantic behavior was rubbing off on her.

"Where is Happy?"

"He's waiting outside,"

"Ok, get him. I need Happy."

"Right away." Natasha flitted away and turned to the direction of the exit. Clint followed behind her, a baffled look on his face.

"Nat, where're you going, what's going on?"

"Getting their bodyguard. Potts' trying to stop whatever Stark's got imprinted in his stupid ass head right now." Natasha replied as she looked at the screen again. He was putting his helmet on. It was now or never.

...

Hogan wasn't by the door.

"Fuck," she cursed, squeezing between a group of girls and back into the lobby. _Where the hell was he?_

"Is that him?" Clint steered her towards the right, where a man laid half asleep on a chair with his shades still on. The red and gray metallic suitcase was hanging off his hand by two fingers.

"Thanks Clint," She pulled him forward with her. "Hogan!" She shouted, he didn't stir.

"Natasha they're doing last minute check up you better hurry," Clint said next to her. Out of time and ideas, she brutally stomped on his foot with the heel tip on her shoes. Happy almost shot out of his seat. The suit in his hand clattered to the ground.

"Yes Mr. Stark!" He said out of habit with less than half a brain intact.

"It's _Rushman._ Stark's on the TV screens about to drive a car himself. Ms. Potts wants you right away." She continued to shout.

"Ok, ok! I'm coming!" Hogan pushed himself off the chair and came face to face with Clint.

"Are you with him?" He asked innocently, wagging a finger side to side between the two. Natasha rolled her eyes and pushed him forward.

"Get going or I'll choke you again."

A quiet chuckle beside her. Clint leaned in to whisper in her ear, "Did you abuse him before?"

"Shut the fuck up."

* * *

Natasha knew she didn't make it in time when she came back to a defeated looking Pepper. The race had began and took Tony with it. She lingered behind the door, no point in going in now.

"Go to her if you want, I'm going to stay here," She told Happy tiredly and walked away with Clint in tow.

"Let's hope he doesn't die, I still have an assignment to finish." She grumbled as she stalked off. She let Clint herd her onto a couch and they sat down, eyes on the live stream directly ahead. The racers glided over the narrow circuit, making bloodcurdling tight corners and packed next to each other with only a few coats of paint's distance between vehicles.

Stark came whizzing out of the tunnel and immediately gained on the yellow car to his right, leaving him at 5th place. The cameras switched to close ups of the other racers for a few more minutes and then stayed at the leading car.

Then the angle shifted again to an intervention personnel who was walking out onto the track. The idiot flipped off his helmet and continued to stride down the road while the first three cars in the lead sped past him.

Natasha stayed rock still as everyone in the rooms and in the crowds outside leaned forward in disbelief. The noise level multiplied ten-fold in a matter of seconds but she was dead to it all.

She knew the man on the screen.

"What the fucking hell?" Clint narrowed his eyes as he watched the lunatic, "What kind of messed up - hey, Nat. Nat you ok? Natasha?" alarmed by the sudden dull film over her usually keen eyes he gripped her arm gently and shook. She was limp as a dead fish. freezing like one, too. He heard her whisper something but didn't catch it with all the screams that invaded his eardrums.

Wait... _Screams?_

Clint reluctantly tore his eyes away from Natasha's face and back to the TV.

_Holy shit._

The man on the track had turned into the Devil himself. His orange employee jumpsuit was burnt to shreds that hung off his waist, revealing a tattooed chest encased in an exoskeleton of wires, and what looked like to be an _arc reactor_ on the center of his chest. His arms were cuffed with steel rings that guided the wires from his chest and back, leading down to his hands in which he gripped two 10 feet ropes of white and crackling electricity, shot through with blue and looking like serpents from hell. The screen shifted to a red car, or rather what's left of it. Chunks of the painted carbon fiber scattered everywhere. A wheel here, a wing there. The vehicle was reduced to a pile of nondescript junk and Clint had a pretty good idea that it was the handiwork of those electric whips in the terrorist's hands.

His fears from yesterday was playing out right in front of him.

_Take that, Coulson and your stupid numbers._

Natasha was so cold, so still next to him. He batted down the bile roiling in his throat and pressed the back of his hand into her cheek. Cold. He trailed that hand down her neck. Cold cold cold. Worst of all, Clint knew she would _never_ let him touch her like this in public. Never. Wherever she was in her mind he needed her out of there and here with him right _now, _so he did the only thing he could think of midst the chaos.

He slapped her.

That caused a few eyes to round their way but he didn't care. He watched her blink as her cheek started to redden. Red was good. Red meant warmth. Warmth meant she was back from whatever internal prison she trapped herself in. She didn't acknowledge his blow to her face or the pain and was off her feet in milliseconds.

"I have to go." Natasha sounded like a ghost.

"What? Where?"

"Stark's gonna get killed. That bitch is Russian." She uttered as if reading from a script. Seeing Pepper rushing out with Happy, she detoured at once to follow them with a robotic gait.

Clint pulled on her wrist roughly to drag her back and gripped her arms. "You are _not_ going anywhere near that psycho. You have _no part_ in this mess Natasha so sit your ass back _down_." He barked. Her face remained unreadable and her legs continued to treadmill in place even though he was blocking her directly. It was no good. Clint changed his tactics and tried again.

"Natasha. Natasha listen to me. Stark is going to hold him off. He's Iron Man for goodness sake. He'll be fine. You'll be ok too. I don't know what you're thinking now but you'll be alright. I'm right here. Clint's right here. Natasha _please!_" He pleaded, forcing her eyes on his.

The machinery in her legs faltered for a moment and he took the chance to spin her back the way they came. She didn't notice. She was gone again.

He dragged her down onto a settee with him and forced her face into his shoulder with a hand at the crown of her head. He couldn't let her see the screens, that'll just make her condition worse. But _he _needed to see this, had to. Something that can turn the Black Widow into a floppy mechanical fish should not be lightly brushed off.

He strained his neck forward, almost everyone had stood up and gathered around the TVs and he couldn't see anything. Judging from their constant screaming and yelling it was getting even worse. Clint took out a tablet from his pocket, aimed it at the direction of the screen and waited while the device transferred the data and then the screen flashed once and he saw hell.

Debris littered the racetrack like candy sprinkles. Stark's car was in crumbs. The man himself was literally dragging his ass away from the terrorist's attacks. Clint watched as a whip came down dangerously close to Tony's heels and he had to jump to avoid getting his feet sliced off. He must not have seen the ruined car behind him and miscalculated the distance, slamming his face into the bottom of the Roxxon. He dropped like a plop of blue cake batter onto the ground.

If Stark's armor doesn't come in the next ten seconds his promise to Natasha just might be broken. He was only alive because the oily looking whip-holder was toying with and not killing him.

Oh but he's about to.

Pummeling and crossing the electric whips to the ground repeatedly in what Clint thought was a way to build up power, he _danced _towards the fallen billionaire. In a strike that was meant to shatter and end him the thug hurled a whip in his direction.

Stark might not have the same level of agility that Clint does, but he was a lot better than most. He seemed to have anticipated the timing of the final hit and scrambled rather gracelessly out of the way the last second. The Roxxon car behind him exploded into 10 feet flames as the whip made a clean cut down its center. Stark's arm caught on fire, and he furiously batted the licking heat away.

A civilian car screeched into view then, with Hogan driving no doubt and crashed straight towards the duo. Stark saw it coming and flung himself onto the metal fencing above, and the villain was crushed between said fencing and Hogan's ride. Tony hopped off and headed for the car, exchanging words with the driver and then Pepper at the back seat.

"Get in the fucking car and _go!_" Clint murmured in frustration and hugged the mess slumping next to him tighter.

Stark walked around the car to the other side, _no, move! _He screamed in his head as he watched the terrorist stir and inch away and then the door Tony was holding open was then sliced in half. The car was backed up a few feet before it slammed into the man again. And again. By then the thug had gotten a good grip on his weapon and slapped it onto the car one, twice, before a third thrash that took away the entire left side of the car.

If he had let Natasha go with them she would have been dead after that blow.

The red and gray suitcase Clint had seen less than half an hour ago was tossed out, and with a step on a button the box came to life. Stark lifted it from the ground and attached it to his chest, the suit was fully activated and scale-like metal plates rushed over his extremities. The crowds shot forward again at the sight of him.

Tony Stark was replaced by the machine that was Iron Man.

Iron Man meant hope.

It was all Clint needed to see. They'll be ok now. The Whip Guy will most likely be imprisoned if not dead after a round of Iron Man, he had a lot of faith in him. He turned the tablet off and dropped it back into his pocket. There was an unhinged Natasha to deal with.

He pushed delicately at the mop of red hair on his shoulder. No response.

"Tasha?" Clint asked, still nothing. He used the hand not supporting her head to brush away the curls on her face. Natasha's eyes were closed. Either she passed out or she fell asleep, both were extremely abnormal.

"Oh God." Clint murmured before leaning down to scoop her legs up. He gave a few seconds for her thighs to slide over his arm until the back of her knees locked in with the crook of his elbow before fully standing up.

He made his way over to the elevator, inched a finger to press the up button while still keeping a firm grip on Natasha and waited until the door opened. He punched in his room's floor number and the door closed behind them.

Getting his room to open was more difficult, he had to balance half her weight on a raised leg while using his free hand to search for his card. They got in without much trouble nonetheless and Clint laid her down on the bed, pulled her shoes off and tucked her in.

He watched her for the next 5 minutes, his aggressive, argumentative partner who had just shattered like glass before his eyes. She looked almost at peace. In fact anyone else in his place would say she looked serene except she wasn't. Clint could see her pulse jump in havoc as if trying to break through the skin on her neck. Her chest heaved a bit more and a bit faster than it normally does when she breathed. The fact that he had her breathing rates branded into his head did not bother him as much as it should have. It felt like something he was supposed to know.

Natasha Romanoff had the disposition of a gun. Sometimes talking to her was like looking down the barrel of a pistol. To S.H.I.E.L.D she was a cold, firing hunk of metal. To everyone else she was an ornamental, museum grade collectible. There was always a purpose behind why they held the gun that was her ranging from simple viewing pleasure to unleashing her bullets.

Clint held the gun for a reason too, he held it so he can wipe down the powder that settled and keep it bright and shiny. He held it to scrub away whatever little past residue that gave way and soaked the rest in a solvent of patience. He etched nicknames and the few good memories the gun held onto its exterior. If he got lucky someday he might figure out how to disassemble it and engrave those things onto the inside, maybe even figure out how that faulty, unpredictable trigger works.

Her gun needed a _lot_ of cleaning.

Clint puffed out a welled up breathe of air and drew circles in the sheets Natasha was covered in, watching the shadows shift as he creased and uncreased the fabric. He had about a million things to do right now. Find Stark, Potts, or whoever, call Phil, investigate who the madman was, the list went on.

He thought about leaving to do one of those things but then Natasha started making grabby fingers under the blankets. Her brows creased in discomfort as she twitched around and Clint flew to her bedside. He dipped a hand under to grasp her icy cold one and held on.

* * *

The Russian winter coursed through her veins and left her young joints stiff and unbending. She never did like the snow, even though she grew up around it.

Natalia would sometimes see little children swaddled in mountains of clothing kick up the fluffy substance as they ran, pointing sticks meant to imitate guns at each other. Wrapping scarves around snowmen's necks and putting smiles on their blank white faces and whatnot.

_The snowman's not cold!_ She would have liked scream at them. _I'm cold!_

And she would watch. Watch out of the car window with no smile on her own face, no scarves around her own freezing neck and no feather down jackets clothing her own bare arms. Watch the little boys chase the little girls with their stick guns when she held her own loaded pistol in her eleven year old hands.

_I want to be a snowman._

She licked her chapped lips to try and comfort the numb, cracking skin. It stung. It felt better when it was cold. Warmth and comfort sounded like a good idea until it started to hurt.

She hated the snow because everyone seemed to love dead frozen flakes more than alive little Natalias.

* * *

Natasha's eyes fell back into reality before the rest of herself does. Her mind was still clouded by the wisps of remembrances. The vapor only started blowing away when she registered that her bone marrow was no longer frozen and she was _warm._ And everything felt _soft_.

Her Natalia mind decided to not linger and fool around with her any more and ran off.

She slowly turned her head to the left and stared at the curtains, at the hazy afternoon light drizzling onto her face, the lamp at the peripheral of her vision.

_Where the fuck am I._

Then she saw the familiar array of bags scattering the ground and thought _oh._

Clint was out of his formalwear and sat in the desk at the end of the bed, pattering softly at the keyboard and frowning into his laptop. Natasha pushed herself up a few inches with her hands until she could see him better and called out.

"Clint."

His screen immediately snapped close. "Hey," He said simply as he dropped down onto the bed, deliberately not touching her. He had to see what state she was in first.

"What time is it?"

"3 in the afternoon."

"Oh."

"You thirsty?" She was. Her throat felt like sandpaper. Natasha nodded slightly and Clint handed her a plastic cup of water. She sipped enough to soothe the dry burn before speaking again.

"What happened to Stark?"

"Turned into Iron Man. Took the guy down. He's in prison now." Clint said carefully, keeping it vague to avoid stirring her nerves again. She didn't speak again for a while. He stayed with her for a few more minutes as she swam in her thoughts to make sure she didn't drown again, then returned to his computer.

"You won't find anything about him on the internet." Natasha said as she watched him click through page after page of irrelevant material.

"Hmm?"

"Nevermind. I need to see Stark, I've been out too long for him to not notice." She kicked the cream colored sheets away and swung her legs off the bed.

"No need. I covered for you, just show up tomorrow morning before they leave for the flight back and you'll be fine. No questions whatsoever." Clint batted a hand at her with his eyes still on the screen.

"But I have something to return to him."

"That box you hid in your dress? I sneaked it back on him." Natasha felt along the place where the scanner was supposed to be. It was gone. He knew how to get things done.

_Guess I'm stuck up here for the rest of the day then._

She was secretly relieved. No reason for her to go down and see the chaos now. No more screams and no more of that _face_ to provoke another mental assault.

Natasha was thankful that Clint had again chosen a room on the top floor. Usually she hated when he does that, it made her feel restless and disconnected from her surroundings. But right now she savored the isolation. Up here in his eyrie she could only make out the faintest hint of the police car sirens and yelling that still could be heard hours after the homicidal demonstration.

He read her body language with unparalleled fluency and played some songs from his iTunes to distract her.

They spent the next few hours in silence. Clint pushed on with his fruitless research on his laptop and Natasha sharpened her knives on one of his belts. 20 strokes on the rough side of the leather for clean sharp edges, 5 on the smooth side for shine. The familiar actions pacified the last of her jumpiness.

Clint called room service for their dinner and they dangled their legs off the porch as they ate, watching the Mediterranean Sea. Still they did not speak and for half an hour the only sounds was the clinking of silverware against plates.

Natasha left to shower after the meal and came back smelling like the hotel issued body wash. As her hair dried in the breeze she finally killed the silence.

"I knew him," She started hesitantly, slowly. She had never said these things out loud and her mouth didn't know how to sound out the words.

Clint turned to look at her and she felt his implied _go on._

"He was with Red Room for a while,"

Another minute pause before she continued.

"He was caught smuggling Russian explosives. Plutonium. Red Room bailed him out of jail half way through his 15 years sentence."

Another pause, shorter.

"They wanted him for his skills, to make weapons and all that. The world thought he was in prison the whole time, Red Room censored better than the government."

...

"They gave him a lot of freedom. Let him loose with the girls in the academy and we weren't allowed to complain or fight back. That was his baragin. And as long as he kept us alive for assignments they were ok with it."

Natasha took a deep breath.

"He pushed some of them around, whips and knives and superficial stuff like that. The prettier ones he abducted. It went on for a whole year."

Clint didn't know what to say as he looked at her faraway expression. She talked as if she's narrating someone else's life over table gossip. No doubt she was one of the pretty ones.

"They kicked him out after he raped one of the high level girls to death, the Room spent a lot of work on her. She had all the latest expensive serums and enhancements. I never saw him again until today." She finished for him. Clint's heart plunged down to the boiling acid of his stomach.

Natasha felt a firm grip on her shoulder drag her sideways until she fell onto a warm body and she instinctively clung on like a leech.

"I was eleven," She told the lulling heat.

A finger hovered across the goosebumps on her cold arms and then a jacket draped over her. Her neck warmed as hot breath blew onto her skin and a small smile blossomed on her face.

Perhaps this was what it felt like to be a snowman.

* * *

Raise a hand if you saw that coming. Come on, Ivan is Russian. Natasha is Russian. I had to pull a thing there. I'm not sure how to play out the next chap yet so I might take a day longer to update.

Thanks for the read!


	5. Chapter 5

**__****_Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and really just everything associated with it. Even the storyline is bent around these movies._**

Apologizing for any spelling/grammar mistakes beforehand.

Hope you all like, review/favorite if you want!

* * *

_"Are you gonna let these Americans put another dent in your life?"_

**_- 40 Mark Strasse, The Shins. _**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Natasha was all business and smiles the next morning. No one brought up her disappearance yesterday nor the scene at Monaco, so she slipped back into Natalie's shell quite comfortably. The only thing she noticed was Stark's concerned look as he greeted her in the morning. What exactly did Clint tell him?

Ten minutes into their flight back to Malibu Natasha started reading the hundreds of e-mails in her inbox. Inquiries surrounding Stark and his company she could handle, but she was forced to skip the ones including the actual incident as she wasn't there to witness it. She still had to have her ears open for anything Tony's saying, as well as picking up a phone call now and then. It was overwhelming work.

Pepper walked past while she was still on the first page, told her to leave the e-mails and the press for after they get home, and gave her permission to do whatever she wanted for the duration of the flight.

Natasha spent the next few hours sucking on a cup of ice cubes and reading biased articles and news stories. Debates on blogs and other social networks were heated and they all lead to the same questions: Can Iron Man still protect us and should his suits be turned over to the government?

Natasha didn't think she could answer that herself.

It all gave her a headache. She exited everything and played internet Tetris instead.

Somewhere during that time frame Tony shuffled pass her and into the kitchen. He's been exceptionally quiet today, the only words she'd heard from him was a few half-hearted attempts at talking to Happy, and something about cycles and ionizers. Not a word to her or Pepper.

Natasha heard cupboards slam, plastic rustle, and a soft "Find me a recipe."

_He's cooking?_ She thought, _never knew Stark had it in him._

He didn't. For two hours there was a constant string of cursing and chinaware being banged around. At some point there was a burnt smell so unpleasant Natasha couldn't help but block her nose with the side of her hand and breathe through her mouth.

Stark sighed, spat a few colorful swear words about kitchen appliances and stuck his head out the doorway.

"Natalie?"

"Yes Mr. Stark?" She paused her game.

"Do you know how to cook? Can you help me?"

_Fuck no I'm worth shit in a kitchen_ she wanted to tell him, "Sorry, I'm no good either," was what she said instead with an apologetic smile and shook her head.

"Oh, it's ok, I'll figure it out." He looked crestfallen.

"What are you making?" Natasha was genuinely curious. What could possibly be so challenging for a man who worked with active explosives and microscopic wirings all day? A rubber spatula?

"...spaghetti..." Tony looked embarrassed as he held up a ladle with goo that looked nothing close to a pasta sauce. The mystery gunk dripped onto the floor and she vowed to not step into that kitchen until he had cleaned every last corner and air freshened the place.

"Well, why don't you try something easier?"

"Like?"

"I don't know, an omelet?" She shrugged. Are omelets easy to make? She had no idea. Clint always made them for her when he got his hands on a skillet and some eggs. He'd slap on a mountain of grated cheddar and fold it in, and when Natasha bit into the fluffy, golden thing the cheese would get stretched into these translucent strands that slapped onto her chin and made him laugh.

Stark took her idea into consideration and his head vanished from her sight. "Find me a recipe for an omelet," she heard him speak.

The fridge was opened and closed, then he spoke up again.

"Find me a recipe for an omelet without cheese in it."

The steady chorus of spoons and bowls smashing started all over again. Natasha dropped her eyes from his direction and unpaused her game. The T-shaped block fell onto a vertical straight one before her finger even left the space bar. She frowned and clicked restart.

Stark reappeared again after half an hour. "Can you come see if this looks edible?" He asked, wringing his hands together in apprehension. Natasha stood up and leaned her head in just far enough to see what he made. The yellowy pile had the general color of an omelet down, except for a big burnt spot in one corner. The spinach and mushrooms looked like they were thrown on the last minute and there was still a fair amount of runny egg. To be honest, it looked like crap.

"I've seen better (Clint's)... And worse (her's), you might want to cook it a bit longer though."

"Yeah, I can tell. I'll microwave it."

_"?!"_

Tony walked out with what was probably his worst creation ever a few minutes later. Pepper handled it pretty well, she's probably used to dealing with with these things. They pushed each other around with their usual banter before the woman finally asked something that caught Natasha's interest.

"Tony, what are you not telling me?" There was hurt in her voice.

A long, tense expanse of time passed before he spoke up with something like fear.

"I don't want to go home at all. Let's cancel my birthday party and uh... We're in Europe. Let's go to Venice, Chipriani. Remember? It's a _great_ place to be healthy."

Be healthy? Now? The last time Natasha checked his concentration level earlier this morning he was at 78%.

"I-I don't think this is the right time, we're in a... Kind of a mess," Pepper said softly.

"Yeah well maybe that's why it's the best time."

* * *

6:43 PM. Laptops were turned on and stacks of papers were brought out once they got back to the mansion. Stark didn't help with anything at all, he went downstairs to be with his precious suits and didn't come out once. All the painstaking work he left to the two women.

Pepper brought out some beverages for the long hours ahead of them, they were going to be talking on the phone a _lot._ A long screen set up on the wall in front of them displayed reruns of yesterday's attack and streamed the news. Natasha took care to not glance at them more than she had to, she might have gotten over the initial shock of seeing Vanko after all these years, but that didn't mean she can keep the decade-old agitation churning inside of her down.

James Rhodes came to visit. He asked for Tony, and stood by the corner for a long time watching the TV screen with a grievous look before leaving them. Natasha could feel his currents of disappointment spinning up a hurricane. Tony was going to get an earful.

The ladies finished word around ten, but they weren't discharged for the night yet. There was still his birthday party, and as Pepper went to see to the arrangements and guests Natasha was put in charge of dressing him up. Albeit she was disastrous with a whisk and a stove she made up for it with her sense of fashion.

As the guests started pooling into the mansion she was neck deep into a closet of his tailored suits. She brought out her selections to the room he was in and told him to change. Stark asked for a martini, instructing her to "make it real dirty."

Natasha heard familiar footsteps fall in line with hers as she made her way towards the bar, she wasn't surprised in the least that Clint had followed her back to the states. How could he not after her uncharacteristic pageantry in Monaco?

She ignored him as usual until she started shaking up the vodka and vermouth concoction.

"You want one?" She offered cooly. He nodded with his calculating marksman eyes whisking over the room, scrutinizing every single person that walked in.

"I'm not on my deathbed so stop looking at those bikinis girls like they're serial killers," she snorted and got out another martini glass. Although no one'd never catch her alive saying the words, she was rather relieved Clint looked at them like that instead of the _other_ way.

He shrugged, "You'd never know, after all some hobo in a fucking jumpsuit turned out to be a fucking soviet convict. I bet you all my acid arrows that shit's gonna happen today too." Natasha disregarded that comment and handed him a glass. He downed it in two gulps.

"I'll be away for a bit, need to get some more things for Stark. And Clint? I know you're still hooked up to my comm." She gave him a deceivingly placid look as she walked off with a serving tray.

She bumped into Pepper, who hastily apologized and told her to make sure Stark looks over the box of watches some businessman gifted, before jogging into a room to her left. Natasha walked in on Tony staring into a graph of his palladium levels. **89%.** She took a long breath as she set down the tray.

She caught sight of Clint again on her way to the room with the watches, he was shadowed in the corner of a balcony. Already the social oddball, his cautiousness tonight made him look even more out of place than usual. He was nothing like the awkward man yesterday trying to improve his conversing skills by talking to waiters and little girls. He looked like a distraught owl.

"Do you know which watch you'd like to wear tonight, Mr. Stark?" Tony's button-down shirt was opened when she entered again, he tried to cover up from her but too late, Natasha had already caught the reflection of the angry black veins fanning out from his chest.

"I'll give them a look." He said as he buttoned up. Natasha set down the watches and swished the shaker of liquor around again. As she poured Stark asked her, "I should cancel the party now?"

"Probably," She replied, walking towards him with the glass.

"Yeah... Cause it's um-"

"Ill-timed?" She interrupted.

"Right, sends the wrong message."

"Inappropriate." Natasha said with disapproval clear in her tone. Throwing a wild house party a day after the Europe disaster was no way to try and repair the frail film of peace. Stark sipped the glass cautiously and held her gaze. He's getting better at it.

"Is that dirty enough for you?" She dropped the simmering topic their conversation was going towards.

"Uh, gold faced with the brown band. The Jaeger. I'll give that a look. Bring 'em over here," He ditched that question too and sat down on a chair.

"I'll take that, why don't you-" Tony started, grabbing the box from her hands and attempting to usher her away but stopped mid-sentence when she sat down on an arm of his seat. Natasha stared at the big bruise under his left eye with mild amusement and produced a container of colored concealer. He was going to show up with _that_ on his face later? Not happening under her watch. Self-obsessed and careless or not, he's grown on her. This was the first assignment where she was sent to simply monitor a target, where she's to look out for someone instead of putting a bullet through their chest. She's watching him die in front of her eyes and not by her own hand.

It troubled her, seeing him pretty much prepare his own death. The donations, the reckless decision to join the race, the hiding from Pepper.

Natasha's never seen a man lonelier than Tony Stark.

She knew for certain she's not going down by illness. The moment she hears she's caught something contagious she'll shoot herself with her best gun before the symptoms hit her. She didn't want to be like him. She didn't want the lingering, didn't want days to plan how she'd exit this world and she didn't want to have to coop that knowledge up and hide it from everyone.

Natasha's never seen a man braver than Tony Stark.

Unlike him she's not tied down to anything or anybody. Nothing to worry about after she loses the fight for that last breathe of air with the devils.

But is she really not tied down? Did she really have nothing, or rather no one, to miss?

"_Maybe that's why it's the best time."_ His words earlier today floated into her head then, and she understood.

She felt the ice around her heart crack. A jagged, excruciating feeling that tore at her insides. A brick pounding against her chest.

For the first time in her life Natasha Romanoff was truly, truly scared.

Those thoughts consumed her in the 20 seconds she took to dab the makeup onto Tony's face. It took a lifetime of practice to keep her expression the same smooth look when there's a typhoon whipping in her head.

"I gotta say, it's hard to get a read on you, where're you from?" His question momentarily pulled her out of her trance.

"Legal," Her voice almost cracked as she lied to the man who was lying to the whole world.

Stark swallowed uncomfortably before raising another question.

"Can I ask you a question hypothetically? Bit odd," Natasha closed the lid on the concealer and waited for him to continue.

"If... this was your last birthday party you're ever gonna have... how would you celebrate it?"

Birthday parties.

Natasha didn't know her birthday. Clint bugged her into celebrating _something_ in her life and they'd agreed on the day he brought her to S.H.I.E.L.D. It might as well be her real birthday, a chance to regenerate and do something good for once in her life. Their version of a birthday party was just a candle dripping wax onto a table in the dark, and her partner nagging her to sing the damned song with him. She'd tease him about never giving her any presents and every year he'd reply with the same answer.

"_You're alive, what better gift do you need?"_

He's out there right now making sure he can bring that gift to her this year.

Natasha knew he was listening this moment. She chose her words carefully.

"I'd do whatever I wanted to do, with whoever I wanted to do it with." She said to Tony with a smile on her face meant for someone else and left before he could see the lost look that immediately followed.

What she had just done was something irreversible.

* * *

Natasha intended on finding Clint but somehow ended up driving back to her hotel. The moon's gravity further aggravated the tides riling in her brain, threatening to pull her under. She stripped off her clothes and burned her skin an angry red under the scorching water. She rubbed at the makeup on her face feverishly, lathered her hair in wash after wash of shampoo, and in the end reduced to sitting on the tiles blowing bubbles with soap. Why she did any of those things she knew not.

She came back to her senses after she noticed the line of red in the water running down the drain beside her. The stupid knife wound that Clint's been fussing over for days had opened up again. The bullet wound on her thigh's been hurting like a bitch too from her neglect.

"_Don't you dare forget to change your dressings_," his words rang in her ear. Natasha felt like vomiting.

She didn't bother with toweling off and let the shirt and shorts absorb whatever moisture they could, it was uncomfortable without her bra and underwear on but she'd forgotten to bring them into the bathroom with her.

Clint was waiting with an opened medical kit when she came out. Her hair dripped water and his eyes dripped torrid anger as they stared at each other.

"Get your ass on the bed. _Now. _If I have to treat that fucking cut one more time I'm pulling stitches on you."

Natasha hated stitches.

She was alarmed when he started lifting her shirt up and went rigid. When he saw enough skin to know she didn't have anything on underneath she fixed her searching eyes on his face. She saw nothing but honest, heartfelt concern as his fingers paused.

Clint dabbed the welling blood away with a warm towel, the tenderness in his hands a severe contrast to the scowl on his face.

"Your arm keeps getting in the way, move it." He said curtly and Natasha lifted the limb up to rest on his head. He pressed a wad of gauze onto the gash, taped the sides down, and cocooned her midsection with layers of tightly wound cloth strips. It was almost miraculous that the bullet hole in her thigh did not get infected, and Clint wanted that luck to last so he slapped on the antibiotic ointments and forced a pill down her throat too.

"Go change, you need to head back. Stark's gone wild, he's blowing up everything and getting mighty drunk. Potts won't be able to keep him in line any longer, you might need to report this." He forced her backpack into her hand and nudged her into the bathroom.

_Tony's losing it too, why doesn't that surprise me?_ Natasha thought as she pulled her undergarments on and then a leopard print dress on top. No time for her hair, she hastily blow-dried for a few minutes and let the rest of the dampness air dry. Her knives and guns were a problem, she was already a little pudgier from all the cloth around her ribs and her dress was tight, so she could only strap on a few around the leg that wasn't wrapped up. They were in her car in less than a quarter of an hour.

For the first half of their 5 minute drive back to mansion their lips were zipped shut. Clint nursed his anger into a restless sleep and the emotions under the wrath began to seep through. His partner was still thinking about her talk with Stark. The uneasy mood heightened when he asked the one thing that's been on his mind this whole time.

"Did you mean what you said back there? With Stark?" He asked as he turned to her moonlit silhouette. His blue slate eyes were wistful, her verdant ones were trained on the dimly lit path ahead.

Natasha's nod was almost nonexistent, but she nodded nonetheless.

* * *

If you didn't catch what the story title meant before, here you go :)

Thanks for the read!


	6. Chapter 6

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and really just everything associated with it. Even the storyline is bent around these movies._**

Apologizing for any spelling/grammar mistakes beforehand.

Hope you all like, review/favorite if you want!

**UPDATED:** Polished off some minor punctuation/grammatical mistakes (8/13)

* * *

_"I could smell the fire from miles away_

_I was always gonna run after the chase_

_I didn't leave you, I just went my own way."_

**_- Sally I Can See You, Kimbra._**

* * *

**Chapter 6**

They knew Stark was in serious trouble when Natasha drove up the path and saw around a hundred people gathered outside the doors with more still coming out. She parked them next to the other cars and squeezed against the current of bodies into the mansion. It looked the same, felt the same, except they could hear a ceaseless booming noise from somewhere inside.

Natasha blocked one of the bikini girls exiting to press her about what had happened. Is that _watermelon_ in her hair? She had a _lot_ of questions right now.

"We were all having fun with Tony and everything, then this other guy showed up and told us to get out." The brunette pouted while tousling her watermelon hair around. If Natasha wasn't playing Natalie she would have liked to slap her silly. She nodded her acknowledgment and headed towards the origin of the battle sounds.

"What are you gonna do? Just find the CEO and report this back to Coulson, this isn't even your fight! Let them work it out!" Clint said behind her. She halted her tracks and thought about unheeding his command, but then Pepper stormed out from the other end of the room and Natasha turned as fast as her heels can carry her to her boss. She needed to know the specifics of what's going on. The other woman caught sight of her and the anger in her eyes smoldered.

"Natalie!" Pepper snapped.

"Ms. Potts," Natasha heard the rumbling and smashing above their head. They needed to step away _now_.

"Oh don't you Ms. Potts me, I'm onto you!" She continued while pointing and shaking a finger at her, "You know what, ever since you came here-" She finished her sentence with a scream as the piece of ceiling a few feet away from them came plummeting down with a giant cloud of dust and two suits. The red one was obviously Stark's, the silver one had to be Rhodes'. Clint clawed at her arm to pull her back outside but she tore away from him and ran further into the ruins.

"Where are you going? Let's get out!"

"I'm going into his computer systems to disable the crap they're wearing." She growled. She had to stop Tony, he couldn't be in that suit any longer. The poisoning will speed up if he did and with him already on his last 10%, chances are it's not going to turn out pretty.

The security at the door was on critical defense mode for some reason and would take twice as long to get past. She didn't care, she had to try everything within her abilities.

The walls shook as Stark and Rhodes threw each other around. "Wait here." Clint ordered and turned to sprint towards the fight. Two minutes later he came loping back, pushed Natasha away from her tinkering and hauled her with all the strength he had towards the back of the building.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!"

"They're blowing the place up!" A thunderous explosion that tore at their eardrums confirmed his prediction. They passed broken glass, dented floorboards, and more gaping holes in the ceilings and walls as they fled. Clint clenched her arm harder and they ran out the back doors. He dropped his grip as soon as they hit the palm trees at the edge of the cliffs.

"I was almost done!" She hissed, kicking up the dirt.

"I don't give a fuck, you should have listened to me and left before all this."

"This what? It's not even your business, _you're not even supposed to be here_."

"It's none of yours either," he ignored the second part of her response. "Come on, let's go back to the hotel." It stung, how Natasha allowed him to look out for her only to push him away at the end. Clint thought he'd get something more than that with her loosening up to him rapidly in the past few days.

"I'm calling Coulson." She turned her handler's line on. What time is it in New York City now? 3 in the morning? 4?

"Agent Romanoff."

"Coulson, Stark just blew up his house."

"Care to clear things up for me?"

"He hosted a birthday party, got into a fight with James Rhodes. Judging from the huge explosion we just felt I'm certain his concentration is well into the 90's now."

"_We?_ Is Barton _still_ with you? And why didn't you keep an eye on Stark?"

"I wasn't present at the time." Natasha brushed a hand to the bandages on her side.

Coulson sighed. "He's almost gone then? I'll inform Director Fury, he should be coming tomorrow."

"And if Stark dies now?"

"Do you have the emergency shot on you? Go stick that in his neck." He disconnected.

Natasha led the way through the vegetation to the front of the mansion. The entire wall was shattered from the blast and glass littered the ground. Rhodes was nowhere to be seen. The little circular lights on the ceiling were still functioning, mocking the aftermath of Tony's showdown. The man himself was propped up to the wall still encased in his suit.

Natasha felt over her good leg and tugged her dress up to unstrap a syringe and vial.

"What are you doing?" Clint asked.

"I'm going to shoot this into him, it'll help slow down the poisoning and give him a day or two more." She loaded the syringe. "Pull his face off for me,"

Clint laughed at her word choice and knelt to yank the mask away. An intuitive smile found its way to her features.

Stark was unconscious. The suit fitted snugly under his chin so even with the face cover off, Natasha had to push at his jaw to stick the needle in his neck. She threw the emptied syringe into a nearby bush and looked down at the unmoving pile of metal and flesh.

"Do we just leave him here?" Clint asked.

"Yeah. Unless you want to carry him back with us."

* * *

Fury came knocking on their door like a rapid fire machine gun the next morning. Clint, who was still asleep on the couch bolted and his hand shot behind to the knife between the cushions. Natasha waited until he had gathered himself before going to open the door. Fury had her gratitude for waiting instead of barging in like he did on other occasions.

"Director Fury."

"Agent Romanoff, good to see you." He nodded respectfully, then his attitude did a 360 as he peeked behind her shoulder. "Barton? I can see your feathers in there. I gave you vacation and what do you do with it? You act like they're worth nothin' and go on another damn mission. Don't expect anymore time off in the future."

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir." Clint said breezily.

Natasha opened the door wider and stepped aside. "Would you like to come in, Director?" She asked. Fury walked in and got a face full of her partner lying on her bed with his shirt half way pushed up his stomach. She stared daggers at him to get off and he grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Fury raised an eyebrow at her. "I sure hope this isn't what it looks like to me, Romanoff."

"It's not. Barton slept on the couch."

"Good. Keep him there. I've got bigger crap to deal with. I need you to set up security around Stark's house while I find him. Here's your equipment." He dropped a suitcase onto the carpet and turned to Clint. "Since you're here, make yourself useful and go help her. When you're done ask Coulson to tell you where to find me."

"Coulson's here too?" Clint asked.

"Yes he is. Now fix yourselves up and start runnin'. I don't have time for playing 'round." The door slammed and he was gone.

They dressed in their regular uniform and headed back to the mansion with their gear and bags. A helicopter had landed in the premises and group of agents were surveying and assessing the damage from last night. Coulson stood above them all like a king, talking into a walkie-talkie. Clint coughed to get his attention and he turned.

"Oh, it's you two. Report back here when you're done." He waved them off like a couple of bothersome flies and resumed talking.

It took them an hour to set up the sensors around the grounds and hook them to the alarm monitoring and control systems. When they returned to the rendezvous site Coulson was writing on a clipboard and sipping on a lemon tea. Clint was starting to get annoyed.

"Location of Fury, Phil. We're done here."

Coulson gave him a long look before speaking into his walkie-talkie. "Director, where do you want the Blackhawk team to go?"

"Give them the helicopter and tell 'em to come party with us at Randy's. The one in Inglewood. Stark's sittin' on a giant donut eating his breakfast." The funky sounding statement blared through the speakers and left the three agents thoroughly confused.

"Yes, Director..." their handler replied hesitantly.

"Oh, and give Romanoff that extra dose of the lith, Stark's gonna need it."

Coulson opened the satchel next to him and tossed a box with another syringe and vial in it to Natasha. They continued to hear Fury's voice through the walkie-talkie.

"SIR. I'M GONNA HAVE TO ASK YOU TO EXIT THE DONUT!"

"Well that's enough weird for today..." Coulson muttered as he turned the volume down.

Clint flew them over to Inglewood in 15 minutes and they landed on a deserted parking lot half a mile from the donut shop. Once they got in the front door he veered away from her to the farthest seat possible from the two men already there and quietly observed. Typical Barton behavior. Natasha gave him the syringe, told him to load it up and continued to sashay her way down the length of the cafe.

"We've secured the perimeter, but I don't think we should hold it for much too longer." She said to Fury. Stark dropped his coffee and stared at the gun on her hip with a dazed look, before tilting his head down to look at her without his sunglasses.

"Huh." He managed to get out. "You're... Fired..."

"That's not up to you." she said in her normal chilled voice and sat down opposite of him. Bye bye Natalie.

"Tony, I want you to meet agent Romanoff."

"Hi." He said listlessly, rubbing his forehead.

"I'm a S.H.I.E.L.D shadow, once we knew you were ill I was tasked to you by Director Fury."

"I suggest you apologize." Tony was trying hold on to whatever dignity he had left after finding out that his hot assistant was his babysitter.

Fury wasn't having none of his shit. "You've been _very_ busy. Made your girl your CEO, you've given away all your stuff. You let your friend _fly away with your suit! _Now if I didn't know better-"

"You _don't _know better. I didn't give it to him, he took it."

"Whoa whoa whoa. What now? He took it? You're Iron Man and he just... _Took it?_ The lil' brother walked in there, kicked your ass, and _took your suit._ Is that possible?!" He turned to Natasha for an answer.

"Well according to Mr. Stark's database security guidelines, there are redundancies to prevent unauthorized usage," she said. Fury opened his palms and gave him a _you-heard-her-motherfucker _face.

Tony gave in. "What do you want from me?" He asked softly. Natasha got up to fetch the shot from Clint.

"What do we want from you? Nuh uh uh. What do _you_ want from _me?_" Fury's voice faded out as she walked away. "Needle, Clint." She held out her hand. He gave it to her and resumed his silent surveillance. She stood a few feet away from Stark and waited for Fury's signal.

"I have bigger problems than you in the southwest region to deal with. Hit him." He pointed at the other man and Natasha promptly jabbed the injection into his neck.

Tony made a gargled noise and jumped as the solution went in. "Oh god are you going to steal my kidney and sell it? Could you please not do anything awful for 5 seconds?" Natasha ignored him and slapped his jaw around to look at the black lines on his neck. They cleared as the chemicals took effect.

"What did she just do to me?"

"What did we just do _for_ you." Fury corrected. "That's lithium dioxide, it's gonna take the edge off. We're trying to get you back to work."

"Well give me a couple of boxes and I'll be as right as rain."

"It's not a cure, just abates the symptoms," Natasha said.

"Then the lag is going to be an easy fix." Fury added.

"Trust me I know I'm good at this stuff. I've been looking for a suitable replacement for palladium. I've tried every combination, every _permutation_ of every known element."

"Well I'm here to tell you: You haven't tried them all."

"What?" Stark threw them a disbelieving look.

"Come back to your house with us, we've got something for ya."

"Whatever it is it's not gonna work."

"We'll see about that." Fury stood up. "Barton, get your rude ass over here and at least greet the man."

Clint's head shot up from on top of his crossed arms on the table at the sound of his voice.

Tony's eyes bulged again. "Hey, aren't you that guy in Monaco? My life is a lie. I'm not ever gonna look at anyone the same way again." He grumbled and brushed pass the group.

* * *

Fury herded Tony to the back of the mansion as soon as their feet touched ground. They grabbed a couple of chairs and sat down to talk while Natasha disabled the phone lines, internet, and every other thing that can reach into the outside world. Clint, along with ten other agents were spread out over various posts around the property on the lookout for potential threats (meaning every living human being).

"Agent Romanoff?" Coulson said from a few feet away from her. Natasha paused her work and nodded for him to continue.

"You'll need to go over to Stark Enterprises later in the day, we still need to keep your agent identity a secret. Potts is there right now and you should go work with her to avoid any suspicion."

"I'll finish up then."

"And run by the Director before you go."

Fury didn't have anything else for her, he brought out a heavy-looking suitcase for Tony and left for some other appointment. Natasha was starting her car up when Clint stuck his head over the roof of the building with a questioning look.

"Nat? Where're you going?"

"Los Angeles. It's an office job so you can leave off."

She could tell he didn't like the idea of it. His scowl dug into the back of her head as she drove off but he didn't stop her. "Don't do anything stupid!" He yelled. That was new, Clint never made a loud noise when he's on the job before.

Pepper had shed the bristling animosity from yesterday. The silence between them was deafening as Natasha shredded papers, made photocopies, and dealt with some of the extra e-mails and faxes. The barely suppressed tension started to leak as they stopped for a lunch break.

"Natalie?"

"Yes Ms. Potts?"

"Please answer me truthfully, were you manipulating Tony into screwing himself up like that?" Her expression was a mix of pain and inner turmoil. Natasha wasn't surprised at her assumptions, she knew Tony looked at her like most men tended to. She knew Pepper was jealous from the first day, that she was afraid of being replaced.

"I was not, those were his own decisions." Natasha held her boss's gaze.

Pepper seemed to deflate further. "I was hoping it was you instead of him," she said. "I'm sorry, I'm being ridiculous. I just can't accept that he did all of those things by his own will..." She swished her cup of tea weakly. Natasha was starting to feel uncomfortable, she couldn't handle sentiments and was even worse at comfort, so she took another bite of her sandwich to buy more time. Pepper, who usually had eyes that missed nothing, was slipping far enough to not notice the redhead's fidgeting and continued talking as if in a trance.

"I think you deserve to know this after my assumptions about you, but the thing is I hate this job. I hate having to deal with all of Tony's things. I hate being a nanny running after him to pick up and tie off everything he messes up. I can't keep up with this anymore." She spun the mug of tea around.

"I'm sure he had his own reasons," _Like the fact that he's almost dead._

"I can't think of a single one that would lead to this much trouble in less than three days."

Natasha didn't know what to say to that, so she sipped her coffee. Pepper glanced at her with a tired smile.

"It was nice to finally talk to you about this, sorry for all the misunderstanding between us."

"It's no problem," She reassured the other woman like she did that day in the boxing ring. Pepper stood up to drop her cup in the sink.

"Enjoy your lunch, I'll be in my office." She halted her steps, remembering something. "And Natalie? That young man who spoke to us about your condition in Monaco? He's a good guy, you keep him around." Her exhaustion melted into quiet determination and just like that, Pepper was gone and in her place was the boss of the Stark Industries and one of the strongest women Natasha has ever met.

The silence between them was easier afterwards, even bordering peaceful. Stark came in around 6 in the afternoon cradling a box of strawberries and fluttered behind Natasha, asking to see Pepper. She glared at him and veered into a room to fax her documents. He gave up and decided to just barge in.

Natasha finished her work and went to find Hogan, after they packed Pepper's bags up they took the elevator to the top floor to alert her of their departure at 7. She could hear a humming conversation as she cracked open the door.

"Ms. Potts?"

"Hi, come on in."

"Wheel's up in 25 minutes."

"Thank you."

Stark's baffled look followed her as she strutted pass him and hands the last of the papers for Pepper to sign. He attempted to crack a joke and no one gave him even the smallest smile. All around him were stony faces so he tried to switch the topic.

"Are you blending in well here, Natalie?" He swallowed as she threw him a frosty look. "...Here at Stark Enterprises? Your name is Natalie, isn't it?" His confusion grew as she watched the two women.

"I thought you two didn't get along."

"No, that's not so." Pepper said.

"So it's just me you don't care for. No? Nothing?"

"Actually, while you're here, maybe you and Natalie can discuss the matter of the personal belongings."

"Absolutely," Natasha said and started to collect the forms on the desk. Pepper left the room with Happy pulling her suitcases.

"I'm surprised you can keep your mouth shut," she said as soon as they left and banged the stacks of folders louder than nessesary.

"Boy, you're good. You are mind-blowingly duplicitous. How do you do it? You're a triple impostor, I've never seen anything like it. Is there anything real about you? _Do you even speak Latin?"_ The questions flowed out of his big mouth and Natasha watched his blabbering with annoyance.

"Fallaces sunt rerum species." _Appearance are deceptive_, she said as she left with her paperwork.

"Which means? What did you just say?" Stark looked offended.

"It means you can either drive yourself home, or I can have you collected." She spat and slammed the door closed. No point in talking literature with him.

* * *

Thanks for the read!


	7. Chapter 7

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and really just everything associated with it. Even the storyline is bent around these movies._**

A/N: This chapter wraps up IM2!

Apologizing for any spelling/grammar mistakes beforehand.

Hope you all like, review/favorite if you want!

* * *

_"And I can tell it's what you want_

_You don't want to be alone_

_And I can't say it's what you know_

_But you've known it the whole time"_

**_- What You Know, Two Door Cinema Club. _**

* * *

**Chapter 7**

The cleaning and repair crew came early the next morning. By the time the two agents had arrived, uniformed workers were already half way through with sweeping up the glass and rubble by the entrance. Clint stationed himself with his bow and arrows on the roof again and his partner went inside as Natalie. They were not going back to the enterprise today, she'll help Pepper with the reparations and accounts here and then they will fly to Flushing Meadows. Justin Hammer was up tonight at the Expo and they had to see what exactly their competitor was planning.

Pepper wasn't bothered at all by all the agents slipping in and out of her house. In fact, she seemed relieved, thanking Coulson for a million reasons and treating him like royalty (he lapped it all up.)

Stark disappeared into his lab as soon as he got back yesterday and locked himself there ever since. No one cared to go down and see how he's doing, they had enough on their hands. S.H.I.E.L.D was more than happy he didn't attempt to break out the perimeter again.

2 PM. Clint was into his 7th hour of guard duty when Coulson sounded in his comm, informing him to come inside the building. He slung his bow over his back and jumped off his perch.

The older agent was staring intently at a bunch of figures and data. "Agent Barton," he greeted with his eyes still on the screen.

"Sir, what do you want?"

Coulson turned, "I want you to take half of the agents here with you when a jet comes in an hour. I don't have a preference as to who you choose, but you're going to Roswell."

Clint narrowed his eyes, _New Mexico? Now? What about Natasha?_

"What's this about?"

"There's been abnormal atmospheric readings recently as well as a peculiar foreign object that had dropped down there last night. We need agents to secure it. You're the best shot we've got in case someone tries to take it, like a safety card."

"What exactly is this foreign object?"

"The reports say it appears to be a hammer."

Clint snorted. This was ridiculous. "You want Hawkeye to protect a _hammer?_"

"I don't care what you think, this is orders from above. I'm leaving now, make sure you have your crew gathered in time."

"But Romanoff-"

"Is none of your business," Coulson finished for him. "An agent's top priority is and always will be the organization, not any specific person."

"Phil, if I wasn't there in Europe with her she wouldn't be here by now." He was furious. Clearly her mission was jinxed, why couldn't he see that? "I told you I felt something and see where it got-"

"I don't believe in superstition, Barton. That was exceptional. Now if you may excuse me I have my own flight to catch. Go pack your things."

* * *

Natasha wasn't happy when he said he was leaving.

It was her turn to be skeptical. Watch a hammer? _A hammer?_ What kind of reassignment was that? There had to be something ambiguous about this case for them to specifically call up Hawkeye. Hers was a planned massacre, she didn't want to know his.

She didn't want him to go.

Natasha rose and lifted her jacket from the back of her chair. "Let's get your things then." She made sure to not show any form of concern as they headed for the car. It was hard.

"How long will you be there?"

"Indefinite, until they finish up research."

No confirmation date then, he could be there for a few days or a few months. It was absurd how the superiors kept tearing their best team apart to go on solo duties. She nodded to show that she heard and kept her eyes on the road.

Natasha gathered weapons and folded shirts and Clint took them from her to stuff into his gear, they were both stalling and knew it. He could clean up a hotel room in minutes if necessary and here they were taking care to not crease his clothes.

This business with hammers and atmospheric anomalies screamed a different, far more hazardous form of danger to her. Not the kind of blood-roaring peril Natasha was experienced with, this felt creepy, unorthodox and ten times worse. It suddenly occurred to her that he was capable of dying.

Her heart rate spiked at the thought and the thundering in her chest crept up her head, where it continued to crescendo until all she could hear was the dreadful drum solo. Screw the psychological instability she's been feeling, she was over-reacting and couldn't help it. Natasha felt the urge to do something, _anything_ to put an end to the delusions.

Clint turned to her when the steady stream of equipment ceased to be handed to him. The erratic gleam in her eyes threw him off completely and he dropped his outstretched hand. _Oh god is she relapsing?_

"Tasha?"

She shot forward with an unsheathed knife still in her hand and locked him in stiff, bumbling limbs. The blade grazed his shirt as it whipped past. Clint flinched at the unanticipated gesture, the rough strength of her thin arms around his ribcage was unfamiliar and it hurt like hell. But because this was Natasha and Natasha was rarely anything more than an unresponsive, ungiving sponge, his grimace shifted into a smile instantly. He reached a hand to his back to tug the knife from her grip and threw it on the floor. That thing was ruining it for him.

"Don't get killed." She grumbled and clutched the back of his shirt instead.

"Ok." Clint draped his arms over her shoulders.

They stayed like that for a while, and when Natasha relaxed her grasp to a light squeeze she had to admit she found the contact really,_ really nice_. Her unsettling thoughts slowly dissipated as she soaked up the feeling of security he emanated. It was a luxury she was never able to afford, and now that she's found a free source she wasn't going to let go. _Won't die_, she chanted in her head. _Won't die won't die won't die_. Clint was warm and tranquilizing and right now he felt immortal.

"Be careful."

"Ok."

"Don't do anything that'll get you into trouble, I'm not allowed to have you on my comm now."

"You're starting to sound like me."

She held her tongue back and pressed her cheek into his collarbone with more force, but he was getting restless. "Your hugs are awesome, but we need to get going. I have to get a team together." Clint gently pushed her away from his chest.

They didn't have time for fooling around with the rest of the gear and was out in an instant.

As Natasha decided on a parking spot she caught him leaning in from his place at shotgun. The fleeting, feathery kiss he touched to her cheek was unsubstantial enough for her to question its existence. She watched him run off to round up his men while her engine was still whirring. Clint turned around at 20 paces and waved to her. She honked back with a faint uncertain smile.

She might not run halfway across the world to tail him, but the same unease lurked below the surface of her mind.

* * *

Tony just couldn't seem to stop destroying things. The repair team had just left and there were already fresh holes that wormed through all the walls and ceilings again. Natasha watched him connect his network of metal tubings and wires for a while but he was in intense geek mode and ignored her. Pepper was beyond caring about a few missing bricks at this point, she had a lot more to fret over.

The two women spent an hour trying to get more information on Hammer's presentation with no prevail. Not even a single clue on what he's exhibiting. Eventually Pepper grew tired of it all and told Natasha to pack a bag for New York. She drove by the hotel again to dump her S.H.I.E.L.D suit, some extra gadgets, and ammo into a handbag. Her hair she pinned up in a 2-minute updo, then she connected Coulson's line to alert him of her leaving.

They arrived at the Expo at 10:54 PM, just enough time to walk to the Main Pavilion and sit down. It was crawling with people the way ants would hang around a piece of dropped fruit. It was Natasha's first time seeing the Expo in person and she was impressed. Magnificent fountains and pools scattered the grounds and displayed light shows. Each stage structure was elevated by a daunting flight of stairs and there were security everywhere, patrolling and directing the traffic.

Their pavilion resembled a Colosseum. It was the size of half a football field and made of thick steel beams that supported a flat glass roof. Happy stopped the car there for the ladies to get off and stayed outside to wait.

The good seats were already filled up by the time they got in, they squeezed into the middle of the far right section and waited for the presentation to begin.

At 11 PM sharp, music started to blast from the overhead sound systems. Justin Hammer came shuffling out the left of the stage in a gray suit. The audience reluctantly applauded but it was nothing like the drowning roars that accompanied the appearance of Stark. Pepper watched him in stupor and turned to Natasha with a _what-is-this_ face.

Hammer continued to dance and twirl his way to the podium and began his welcoming speech.

"Ladies and gentlemen, for far too long, the country has had to place its brave men and women in harm's way. But then Iron Man arrived, and we thought the days of losing lives were behind us. Sadly, that technology was kept out of reach. That's not fair, that's not right. And it's just too bad."

"Oh lord." Pepper shook her head in aggravation.

"Regardless, it was an impressive innovation, one that grabbed headlines the world over." He paused briefly. "Well today, my friends, the press is faced with quite a different problem. _They're about to run out of ink_."

A few claps, a couple of stagehands ran up to take the podium away.

"Ladies and gentlemen, today I present to you the new face of the United States military: The Hammer Drone!" He pointed a finger at the empty stage behind him, and the floorboards retracked. A flock of robotic warriors rose from underneath: bulky, ashen metal androids with blue energy slits on their heads that glowed menacingly. Pepper grew quiet beside her.

Natasha would recognize the workmanship anywhere.

That slit of energy appeared on almost every invention _he_ made for Red Room, it was for control and communication.

She felt herself slip again. Vanko was not in prison, he didn't die in that explosion. Vanko was still around to haunt her.

_No._

It had to be a coincidence. There is no way that Justin Hammer could be working with him, no matter how competitive he got he wouldn't look to a criminal. Natasha held onto that thread of hope like a lifeline and only half listened to the rest of his speech.

The last of the retractable floorboards revealed Colonel Rhodes in Tony's weaponized Mark II armor. _So that's where he flew off to yesterday. _Rhodes saluted, and the drones followed suit, earning a louder round of applause.

A dull whirring sound surfaced then, and the audience turned towards the source of the noise. A spark of hot white energy tore through the sky. Iron Man landed dead center of the stage a blink of an eye later and the crowds stood up, cheering. _Oh god it's him again please don't do something irresponsible, _Natasha thought.

Tony made his way over to put an arm over Rhodes and they waved at the audience together. Pepper was silently brewing up a storm, her eyes were blue flames and she was taking deep, controlled breaths.

Then the unthinkable happened. Rhodes suddenly pointed fire at Stark, followed closely behind by the rest of the drones and the swarms of people began to panic and scatter. Iron Man flew up the hole in the roof being pursued by a hail of bullets that shattered the glass panes and rained shards onto the population below. All the drones except for the aerial ones started to walk off the stage and into the common areas, which caused a bigger riot and had the civilians flushing out even faster.

"Natalie, backstage with me. I need to find out what Hammer is doing." Pepper gathered her things and bolted the opposite direction everyone else is heading in, paying no mind to the machines coming towards her. Natasha grabbed her bag and hurried after her.

They doubled down the steps to the programming units where Hammer and his men were arguing over a computer screen. "He's locked us out of the mainframe." They heard a fear-ridden voice stammer.

"Who's locked you out of the mainframe?" Pepper barked as she rushed towards the group.

Hammer tried to usher them out. "Please, please, go away. I got this handled."

"Have you now?" She raised her voice.

"Yes I do! In fact, if your guy hadn't showed up, this wouldn't be happening. So please now, go away! Thank you!" He turned back to his people.

Natasha wasn't going to settle for any of this. She had her own questions. She roughly pushed his shoulder down and slammed him to the desk in the most painful armlock she could give out.

"You're gonna tell me who's behind this. _Who's behind this?_" She hissed into his ear.

"Ivan Ivan Ivan! Ivan Vanko!" He grounded into the table. Natasha's expression contorted to hysteria for a second but she recovered quickly, this wasn't time to shut down.

"Where is he?"

"He's at my facility."

She dropped him at that statement and flew out for the car. She's not going to hide anymore, Natasha's going to face that bitch head on this time and make sure he's dead once and for all.

Outside the Expo was being blasted to ruins. The drones were firing directly into mobs of people and buildings and the police darted among them trying to round up the chaos. Happy, ever so faithful stayed ground outside and was relieved when he saw Natasha.

"No one's answering the phone, what's going on?" He asked.

"Get in the car. Take me to Hammer Industries." She commanded. Now was not the time to play her character, she didn't know if it mattered anymore at this point. She was turning this into her own private revenge mission and she'll be sure she damn well finishes it.

"I'm not taking you anywhere!"

"Fine! You want me to drive?"

"No, I'm driving. Get in the car."

Hogan drove like a kid with a bumper car as he tried to ditch the civilians and get on the freeway.

"Where's boss?" He asked.

"She'll be fine." Natasha loosened her hair from the pins, ripped the suit out from her bag and started to peel off her clothes. She wouldn't be able to work in the little black dress she had on.

"When we arrive I need you to watch the perimeter," she told Happy. "I'm gonna enter the facility and take down the target." His eyes were glued on her half naked body in the rear view mirror and he veered away from a car the last second. He was getting distracted.

"Watch the road." She told him as she laid back on the seat to pull the fabric over her legs.

"I got it."

Next she primed her suit with her usual mess of equipment: daggers, tasers, and her Walther PPK/S handguns. The guns was for a special someone, she had nothing against the defense crew. Hogan pulled up outside the facility in Queens 10 minutes later. He wouldn't let her go in alone so Natasha gave in and let him help. The security pad at the door was bullshit and they had it breached in seconds.

Natasha left the first guard for Happy and threw 2 taser disks at the second one to quickly disable his legs. She's trying to ditch her sidekick as soon as possible so she'll have time to chat with her fellow Russian. The ice cold dread she felt a few days ago was no longer there, this was blinding hot, pure murderous rage. She knew Vanko was watching her from the cameras.

The next few guards Natasha took down with her legs alone, knocking them unconscious but not dead. Then another two with stun grenades that took away their vision for a few seconds, giving her time to trip their feet and smash their skulls to the floor. One came at her with a baton in hand and she choked him with the garrote strapped to her waist. While still holding on to the handles of the thin rope she kicked another couple to the ground. One of them scrambled up and aimed a can of pepper spray at her. She locked her legs around his throat and twisted to unbalance him, slamming him face down to the ground and snatching the spray from his hands.

Natasha felt the air shift behind her and whipped around in time to catch the punch meant for her head. She bent the limb back until she heard something snap and elbowed the shoulder joint on the other arm. All done. She stepped over the limp bodies and walked down the corridors, spraying on one of the men who had gained his footing.

There were no maps around, and Hammer didn't tell her where Vanko was so Natasha decided to just kick open every door until she found him. The process slowed her down considerably and Hogan caught up with her. Too bad, he'll have to watch her plant bullets in the Russian by the dozen. She booted the last door down the hall. This was it. She held her guns in front of her and wheeled in, her breathing raspy and tight.

The room was empty except for two sentries that hung dead from the ceiling.

"He's gone." She hissed with hatred. The bastard slipped away right when she had him and she knew exactly where he's headed. She needed to help Rhodes regain command over his suit.

Natasha stalked across the small room and placed her pistols on the table. She typed in a code on the keyboard to call up the Mark II suit's controls, Rhodes was rapid firing at Tony now and at close range. Her fingers skimmed over the keys faster and in moments she gained access to his system. She hit the enter button three times and disabled the armor.

"Reboot complete," she announced. "You got your best friend back."

Tony's face showed up on the screen, no surprise since both suits were his and the controls were linked.

"Thank you very much, agent Romanoff." He said earnestly. Happy's confused look grew bigger.

Natasha scanned through his physical readings provided by JARVIS and was washed with relief. His organs were no longer clogged up with toxins, overall function improved and most importantly, the element in his chest was no longer palladium.

"Well done with the new chest piece, I'm reading higher output and all your vitals look promising."

"Yes. For the moment, I'm not dying. Thank you."

"What do you mean you're not dying? Did you say you're dying?!" Pepper showed up on the smaller screen above Tony's, she had hacked into the system too.

"That you? Uh, no. I'm not. Not anymore."

"What's... What's going on?"

"I was going to tell you I didn't want to-"

"You were going to tell me? You really_ were dying?_"

"You didn't let me-"

"WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME THAT?"

"I WAS GOING TO MAKE AN OMLETE AND TELL YOU."

This was no time for useless arguments that won't change anything. The drones were approaching fast.

"Hey hey, save it for the honeymoon, you've got incoming Tony. Looks like the fight's coming to you." Natasha interrupted.

"Great, Pepper?"

"Are you ok now?" Her panicky voice calmed somewhat.

"I am fine. Don't be mad. I will formally apologize-" "I _am_ mad." "-when I'm not fending off a_ Hammeroid attack._"

"Fine."

"We could have been at Venice." Natasha caught the good old chaffing undertone in his voice.

"Oh please."

Tony had JARVIS help start up Rhodes' suit again and assist him in controlling it. She watched the map on the screen, the drones were coming in close and they were still arguing back and forth. "Priorities, Stark..." She muttered.

They took them down relatively fast, Hammer's suits were made of flimsy material that gave easily, and they were slow. The Stark suits had them dismantled to pieces in minutes.

This can't be all, where's their big boss?

Natasha zoomed out on the map display and saw one last icon moving towards them: HSD 001. This was it.

"Head's up, you got one more drone incoming. This one looks different, repulsor signature's significantly higher," she warned. The suit material was different also, this wasn't the putty that clothed the other androids. She tried to fetch the details on it but there was none. That suit wasn't connected to Hammer's systems, she doubted it was connected to anything at all. Russians liked to cut it off clean.

She couldn't see what Vanko was doing to the other two, but from the damage analyses flashing on her screen she had a pretty good idea of what's going on. The voltage around their neck areas skyrocketed, he was using those electric whips on them except these were much, much more refined and deadly.

"Come on, genius... Think of something. Don't die when you just got your chest figured out..." Natasha said to herself.

Tony didn't disappoint. The screens showed that both their repulsor rays were being initiated at the same time. As she watched the energy in their palms climb she understood how they had completely demolished the Stark mansion.

Their beams met head on and an colossal energy shockwave rippled rings of bright red from their spot a heartbeat later. Vanko's icon flashed rapidly from the attack's damage and then faded out all together.

He's dead.

The man who haunted her for almost half her life was gone for good.

Natasha slumped back on the chair behind her and focused on breathing for a few moments. The adrenaline rush was ebbing away fast and it was all too much for her to take in in a day. She massaged the ridge of her eyebrows and sighed.

Happy, who was silent this entire time spoke up.

"Rushman?... Or is it Romanoff or something now?" She heard a hint of suspicion in his voice and laughed. She was completely busted.

"I'm a S.H.I.E.L.D operative, came here to watch Tony's balls."

He furrowed his eyebrows at the complete shift in tone and style of her speech. "...Wow..."

"Take me back to the Expo, we need to finish business."

"Yeah? Aren't you gonna run off or whatever now?"

"As much as I'd like to, can't do that without cleaning this shit up."

* * *

I rewrote the hotel scene so many times, it was hard to find a balance where it wouldn't be too OOC for Natasha D: Hope it was alright!

Thanks for the read!


	8. Chapter 8

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and really just everything associated with it. Even the storyline is bent around these movies._**

Apologizing for any spelling/grammar mistakes beforehand.

Hope you all like, review/favorite if you want!

* * *

_"She's a runner, rebel and a stunner_

_On her merry way sayin' baby whatcha gonna?_

_Lookin' down the barrel of a hot metal .45_

_Just another way to survive."_

**_- Dani California, Red Hot Chili Peppers._**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

Natasha couldn't sleep.

Usually one of three things happened in the nighttime: 1. She tracked or killed a mark, 2. She tossed and turned for an hour before shutting her eyes, 3. She still couldn't sleep and shreds open some target boards.

There were no target boards on Stark's plane.

So she sipped a scalding cup of tea, opened up Tetris and played in the dark until her mind was absorbed into the colorful blocks. The quiet humming of the engine and the steam from the cup soothed her. It was some of the most lavishing post-mission hours she's ever had.

Tony padded into her compartment in fluffy slippers and watched her game from the doorway. Natasha flicked her eyes down to the clock display, 3:27 AM.

"Can't sleep?" He asked after a few minutes.

She ignored him and focused on the screen, but Stark was in a chit-chat mood.

"Do you always walk around like a human armory?"

She didn't answer.

"I'll take that as a yes. Say, that's a really high score. How long have you been playing?"

"..."

"Fine I'll get to the point. I wanted to thank you in person for what you did for me and Rhodey back there."

He's got her attention. How often did one hear Tony Stark thank someone not once, but _twice_ in a day?

"It wasn't much," she said.

"Oh but it was. Do you know how _awful_ it is having your best friend attack you? I mean I know Rhodey wasn't in control at the time but that's not the point. I was prepared to die a long time ago, I accepted that. It's just... I never thought someone I love might try to kill me." He stopped to rub his eyes. "Damn I need a manly boost for telling you this."

Natasha paused the game but continued to look at the screen as she spoke. "I can't relate to that." It was true. She could count her circle of "friends" in one hand, she had no intention of dying anytime soon and she sure didn't love anybody.

"Geez, where's your charm? You're like a hunk of ice. Someday crap like this should happen to you and we'll see if you can keep that face up."

"I've been through worse. Give it up Stark." She unpaused and continued playing. This was her best score and she wanted to see how high she could go.

"50 bucks."

"No." _Is he betting on my future?_

"C'mon what can it hurt?"

"Every bone in your body."

"You know I can disable that laptop right this second? It's not hard, I'll erase all the data and wipe your existence off the scoreboards."

"Fine! Now _stop distracting me!_"

* * *

Clint spent the five hours flight to New Mexico in a back corner of the Quinjet. The other agents invited him to join their game of poker at some point but after the first 15 minutes he was done. Being stuck with ten other people in the close quarters for such a long time was already testing his limits, to _interact _with them was just asking too much. He sat with his legs stretched out on the floorboards and twanged his bowstring over and over, downloading dozens of useless games to his phone and deleting them after the first level. When that grew tiresome he resolved to just watching the clouds through the front windshield.

Coulson debriefed their units in one of the agency's trucks in the outskirts of town. He was gone the next morning to check out the crater site and there were a few cars waiting for the agents when they woke up. The ten of them squeezed in two, and Clint led them through the small town with the third one containing the equipment they're bringing. Roswell was flatter than the blades of Natasha's fancy daggers and a tenth as sharp. The neighborhood they passed by was sleepy looking and occupied by older people and families. The buildings were mute and squat with the same coloration as the plains in the distance.

The crash site was 70 yards in diameter and dipped down in a steep slope. A number of S.H.I.E.L.D trucks and personnels was already there. Coulson saw the fresh cars approaching and waved his walkie-talkie. Clint halted at the edge of the crater.

"Instructions, sir?"

"I'll take a few of your group with me to fetch some research. You take the others and help our people clear out the locals, then set up perimeter and base around the object."

"Will do."

"I'm putting you in charge here, make sure everything runs smoothly."

Clint watched him call up a facility truck and a few vans and rode off with 4 of the Malibu agents. He turned to the other expectant faces around him and cursed. He was no leader, he only did what he was told and Coulson had to place to jewel crown on his head.

A strong cocktail of beer, cigarette smoke, urine and barbecue invaded his nostrils as he slid his feet down the slope. The dirty men stared as he made his way towards them. One of them pointed at the bow across his back. Even as an agent Clint stood out. The others all wore suits and dress shoes while he stomped around the dirt in combat clothing and a quiver of arrows.

The head of security was a beefy man called Charles that towered over Clint and cussed a lot. They continued to evacuate the townspeople, sometimes with brute force and that's where the arrows came in: Clint would aim at some stubborn bastard and he'll leave without another word. No one messed with the Bow Guy, he already had a reputation. It took only a half hour for them to clean up their empty bottles and go.

The hammer was a big, blocky thing with a leather handle and strap. "It won't budge no matter what, those crazy bitches hooked it to a pick up truck. The whole back part flew off but the thing stayed. It's like magic." Charles said when he saw the archer scrutinizing it.

"There is no magic," Clint said as a matter of fact.

"Yeah? Well y'all scientists figure it out, 'cause that's not normal."

The camp design was shaped like a cross, with the hammer at the center like Jesus' heart, encircled by a wall of scaffolding and monitors. A curve of elevated walkway draped down Jesus' arms and to the top right ran another shaped like a slithering snake. At the head of the snake was the research center.

The tunnels were made of thin metal rings held together by flimsy skins of plastic. It took their 150 men half the day to finish, but most of the attention was being directed to the facility which came in on wheels. The wheels were removed and replaced with supports that went 8 feet underground. The inside was already complete with bulletproof walls and coffee machines.

Coulson came back with his agents around noon and started to unload their cargo. Clint watched them haul out a telescope, at least a dozen strongboxes, backpacks, binders, and some other junk from the back of a van. One agent pulled out an old looking iPod.

"Coulson where did you get these from?" Clint asked.

"An astrophysicist."

"Did you just take everything they have?"

"They have all the data and images on the wormhole, we got to start our research somewhere."

So they were _stealing. _Clint wasn't sure if he liked the idea, but he kept his mouth shut.

* * *

At night the tunnels glowed like fluorescent light tubes. Vehicles continued to drive around like they've been doing all day and guards patrolled the perimeter. Inside, people were either gathering data on the hammer, observing atmospheric changes, or standing post at points in the walkways.

Clint stood on the roof level of the central platform. His cheeks were frozen by the chilly breeze, his lips chapped. The tactical gear he had changed into didn't do a lot against the wind. Overhead, the sky flashed every now and then with weak threads of lightning but the thunder never came.

He turned to face the little dots of people skittering around, the almost invisible wall of metal fencing, the mountains beyond, then at the truck by the main building where they stored all the firearms. Coulson had convinced him to leave his bow there since it wasn't his usual collapsible one. The compound was too bulky to be dragged around and it made people nervous. Clint stared longingly at the closed doors.

It thundered once, and the lightning stopped all together. _Freaky indeed, even the weather is messed up. _He mused.

Another 10 minutes passed before the crackling and writhing of electricity appeared again. Clint hated it, it reminded him of Vanko's whips, slicing up everything in their paths like warm butter. He imagined the lightning ripping open the sky and dropping a few aliens for him to shoot down.

Suddenly a high, almost hawkish screech jerked around him. Security was breached. The alarm lights flashed an urgent red against the pale plastic and all around him people's paces quickened. Clint stayed put, scanned the murky darkness through his night vision goggles and tried to single out the invader. He found a suspect slinking behind a supply truck, then sprinting across the tracks when the road was clear. He caught a flash of blond hair when the lights shone down on him. The man ran to one of the tunnel entrances and clambered up.

A few bodies clashed against him from the other end and the man dealt with them through pure strength. He met them head on and threw them down. Clint was intrigued, this was a style of fighting that he was unfamiliar with. He preferred being either at least 200 feet away or using precise tactics in close combat. Rough and tough was not his style because he wasn't big compared to most of his opponents. This guy, however, looked ripped from head to toe. He tumbled down the guards coming at him like a pile of puppies. Hell, he might have a chance against Captain America if the dude was still alive; Coulson fawned over him like a teenage girl. The plastic blurred out a lot of the action, but Clint still picked up most of what's going on. The man was steadily advancing towards Jesus' heart.

The thundering and flashing turned more aggressive, as if hailing his approach. A drop of rain plopped down on Clint's nose, then another on his right cheek. In mere seconds it turned into a full out downpour. The powdery dirt absorbed the water and turned into brownie mix.

"I need eyes up high, with a _gun._" Coulson said into his radio, emphasizing the choice of weaponry. That was Clint's cue. He leaped down from the railing, using the lower levels as stepping stones and tore out the structure.

He shot into the armory truck and quickly looked over his options. His hands fell onto the Remington 700PSS sniper but hesitated when he saw his compound right above it. The bow was more tantalizing. _Fuck him and his guns, it does the same exact job._ He abandoned the rifle for the bow and grabbed a single arrow from a nearby quiver.

Clint sprinted for the crane bucket outside and threw in the bow first before hopping on himself. A _riiiiiiip_ behind him, he turned and saw a gaping hole in one of the tunnels. One of their men was in the mud. The crane started to lift him up and his little cage wobbled back and forth. Clint adjusted the bow in his hand and waited.

"Barton, talk to me." It was Coulson. The reception was bad.

Clint nocked his arrow and drew the bowstring back. "You want me to slow him down sir?" He aimed at the structure below, waiting for the trespasser. "Or are you sending in more guys for him to beat up?"

"I'll let you know."

The guy was a few feet from the edge of the platform now. Clint saw a huge shadow coming at him from the side. It was Charles. He threw a heavy punch at the blond's chest and knocked him to the floor. Out of all things the intruder looked amused. He staggered up and returned the punch to the guard's jaws. They continued the back and forth blows until Charles hurled him out the end of the tunnel and the fight was brought out to the open. Clint swung around on his perch and trained in on a leg. Coulson might not want him dead.

The two men rolled around the mud and then Charles had him in a headlock. The other elbowed him in the stomach repeatedly and he let his grip go on the third time. The blond pushed away from him and they both scrambled to their feet. When the guard came into range he kicked out with his legs and brought them both to the ground again. He added another kick to his head before smiling in glee. Clint was madly impressed.

"You better call it Coulson, cause I'm starting to root for this guy." He watched him rip open the plastic covering on his way to the hammer and stand over it for almost a minute.

"Last chance, sir." Clint drew the arrow back further.

"Wait. I want to see this."

They watched him grip the leather handle of the hammer and pull. Not surprisingly, it didn't give. The man braced himself there for minutes growling and howling as he tried to lift the thing, and after realizing that he couldn't do it, he tilted his face up to the sky with a look of hurt and disbelief, almost as if he could not fathom the reason why. Clint doubted he even noticed him hanging there in the crate.

He searched the clouds as if looking for deities and screamed. His dirty hair plastered to his scalp. The haunting sound sent shivers down the archer's rain-soaked body and hushed the heaven's own cries.

"Alright, show's over. Ground units, move in." Coulson said into his transmitter. Clint released the pull on his bow and signaled the crane driver to drop him down.

He looked at the stranger one last time before he disappeared out of view. His kneeling figure was submissive, the fight's cleared out of him.

They prodded him towards central base. Coulson followed after them, probably for interrogation. Clint stared at the hammer through the rip in the plastic for a long time before entering. He crouched down next to the mysterious object and stared some more. There was sublime power in it, he could see that. The man's face still bothered him. The way he looked at the weapon suggested that this was a reunion. It made no sense, and Clint was sure Natasha'd roll her eyes and tell him to stop over-thinking.

He waited outside the interrogation room and watched Coulson question the man sitting in front of him. Clint didn't think he got even a word out of the poor guy. Coulson pull his radio from his pocket, frowned, and then went outside.

"Did a S.H.I.E.L.D crew clean up?" He paused between each question. "What happened to Hammer?"

Clint perked up. _Natasha?_

Coulson waited until the buzz from the other end cut off before speaking in the exact same tone to the air, "Clint, get down from the roof and I'll tell you. If not I've still got work."

He jumped down at that, landed noiselessly in front of the other man and crossed his arms. Coulson took one look at his stance and knew he was about to explode. At least on the inside.

"Justin Hammer showcased his drones at the Expo. Turns out Vanko wasn't dead from that prison explosion and was controlling their actions. They went after Stark and destroyed almost half of the entire park. And she's ok, if that's your question."

Clint narrowed his eyes.

"Well she sounded really pissed off."

"What happened to Vanko?"

"He's dead, Stark and Rhodes took him down."

_Thank God. She'll be fine then. _"Thanks Phil, 'preciate it."

"I don't want you to make a habit of this snooping around."

"I understand."

"You damn well don't." Coulson muttered and climbed back up to the building.

* * *

Thanks for the read!


	9. Chapter 9

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and really just everything associated with it. Even the storyline is bent around these movies._**

A/N: A funny thing happened on the way to Thor's hammer...

Nope, do not own that either.

Apologizing for any spelling/grammar mistakes beforehand.

Hope you all like, review/favorite if you want!

* * *

_"Why won't you believe in it 'til it's gone?"_

**_- Shuffle, Bombay Bicycle Club._**

* * *

**Chapter 9**

The man from yesterday, identified as Donald Blake was picked up by a Dr. Selvig, who told Coulson that the he was one of the scientists they took the research from. Selvig's story was unconvincing to say the least and Blake's ID was found to be a fake. Coulson permitted them to go anyway, but not without a few shadows to monitor their activities.

Clint paced the premises all night, half on the lookout for intruders but mostly to distract his own endless intuitions. It didn't help. He scaled the platform around the hammer again and stayed there, waiting for sunrise.

Morning came with a cloudy sky that hung low to the ground. Rain evaporated from the sand. The holes in the tunnels were patched and the guards forced onto a double shift drifted like ghosts.

Coulson rushed out of research shortly after noon with half a dozen cars. Later, one of the vehicles came back and an agent hurried inside. Agent Blake and a few others came out with him and they took several more cars. Clint watched them drive up to below his platform and Blake's window rolled down.

"Barton, in the car with me." He pointed a thumb at the backseat.

Clint swung his legs off the railing. "Emergency, sir?"

"Something like that, I'll explain on the road."

Once he was in the car, however, the explanations were forgotten. Blake started talking to Tomson beside him and Clint more or less caught on to what's going on. There was another site with the same kind of energy readings northwest and Coulson wanted to investigate.

They arrived 15 miles later. There was no crater this time but an intricate circle of designs burned into the earth. White-clad researchers flocked around it and Coulson squatted down beside them.

"Instructions, sir?" Clint hovered behind him.

"Keep an arrow nocked and your eyes open, and don't shoot unless I say so. Thanks Barton." Coulson said before resuming his previous conversation.

A half hour passed. A dark cluster of clouds gathered above them and steadily grew by the second. The agents tilted their guns up as if waiting for an aerial attack. Coulson glanced at it every now and then but otherwise kept his focus to the ground.

The clouds began to twist their way down rapidly in a tube shape. The energy monitors went crazy and an urgent breeze pulled at everyone's feet.

Clint gripped his bow tighter. "Coulson..."

Around him, a few juniors darted their eyes between the sky and the group by the research spot, waiting for a command. The thick tube continued to spiral down and stirred up the wind even more. A fine mist of sand flew and settled into the creases of clothes. Clint adjusted his shades, zipped his jacket to the top and covered his nose with the collar.

Coulson walked over to him while keeping his eyes on the sky. "On _my_ command," he drilled and patted Clint's bow.

The swirling storm touched ground a heartbeat later and the turbulence it created threatened to topple everyone over. Clint squinted against the flying debris and pulled the bowstring back.

As the dust cleared they saw exactly what it had brought. A giant humanoid figure stood in the dust clouds. Its metal covering glinted a dull silver in the sun.

Clint heard the agent next to him inhale sharply.

No one dared to move. Everyone's gun barrels were trained at the newcomer.

Coulson came out from the car he was behind and broke the deadlock.

"Is that one of Stark's?" Sitwell handed him a megaphone.

"I don't know. That guy never tells me anything." Coulson sounded fed up. He took the megaphone and walked out into the open. Sitwell followed a step behind.

The stranger clunked towards them, its footsteps heavy and loud.

"Hello. You're using unregistered weapons technology." Coulson said into the megaphone. "Identify yourself."

The silver armor froze in its steps at the sound of his voice. The piece over its face slid down and the entire suit lit up with an intense orange glow from within.

Clint's muscles twitched in alarm.

The machine resumed his walk, faster this time and with a more dangerous motive. Coulson watched the hot fire brew in its face and stumbled back.

_"AGENTS!"_

The crew scattered with panicked cries. A beam of fire shot out at the closest car and reduced it to a rain of sparks. Then it turned to a car at the back. The unlucky individuals who was caught in the flames died instantly.

Clint stayed put, aimed at what he thought was a chink in the armor and fired the arrow. It lodged between the metal plates as he expected and the explosives went off. What was not expected, however, was the way the pieces came together again after the explosion had unraveled them. Clint was baffled. He released another arrow and the same thing happened. The plating stuck like magnets.

The glowing head turned in his direction and Clint scrambled to get out of the way. This was beyond even him now. His attacks did the same amount of damage as a pin prick.

The automaton fired and the car behind Clint exploded to pieces. A searing heat followed and tore at the back of his jacket as he ran. It was on fire; an unusually strong kind that burned through the flame resistant material like tissue paper. Water welled up in his eyes from the pain and he dodged flying car parts through blurred vision.

A dismantled car door slammed into his back and knocked him to the ground. The familiar sensation that came with a damaged bone hit him. Rackets of pain pulsed through his torso and he gasped into the sand, struggling for a breath of air.

The rest of the vehicles were done for in less than a minute, all turned into charred, smoking junk.

Clint stayed in the same position he fell in to not further aggravate his back, although it left him completely helpless if the monster decided on another round. The good news was he could still feel his lower half and he intended to keep it that way. Clint slowly twisted his neck around to look over the mess on his shoulders. The bloody, mottled skin stung, although not as badly as the rest of his body. His jacket and shirt was shredded. This was_ not _how he expected to end up on this assignment. He thought of Vanko's orange jumpsuit in ribbons flapping around his waist and grimaced.

The heavy walk of their attacker faded, and for a while the only sound was the hissing of broken vehicles. The sharp smell of gas and smoke hung in the air.

Clint swallowed the bile in his throat and waited for someone to find him, if there's anyone left at all.

"Barton? Can you hear me?" A few pairs of footsteps thumped against the ground. A shadow fell over his face and he rolled his eyes up. Coulson knelt next to him, miraculously unscathed.

Clint wanted to hug him and sock him at the same time.

Coulson's expression was one of disappointment and concern. "I told you not to shoot. You should have ran while you had time."

Clint kept his mouth shut and stared at the ground. He didn't want to talk to him. He had nothing to say when there was no one to blame but himself.

Coulson looked at the way he studied the sand and sighed in defeat. Clint was too stubborn for an apology. "We'll get you someone. Don't move."

Sitwell crouched down next. "Anything broken? Or is it just the burns?"

"My back's busted for sure. Maybe my ribs." The grit got into his mouth and he raised his head to spit it out. "Who else is still here?"

Sitwell looked around. "You, me, Coulson, Blake, Bryson, Kennette, Jordan, and Lans."

"That's all?" He gave a humorless chuckle that sent a jolt of pain through his lungs. They had thirty people less than 10 minutes ago. "Did you check the bodies?"

"There's none. If you're not alive you're turned to ashes." The other agent shook his head.

"Damn."

It took a while before communication was up again and even then, the signal was disrupted and choppy. Eventually the retrieval team arrived and the wounded were taken back. Coulson took one of the fresh cars with the agents that were unharmed and drove towards the direction their attacker headed in.

The paramedics lifted Clint onto one of the stretchers as carefully as they could. Breathing was already shit, twisting his body around was agony. Once he was settled they fed a stream of Dilaudid into his veins to take out the pain. Another needle dripped a pouch of light yellow liquid. A nurse flitted about his arms and cut his shirt loose with a few snips of her scissors.

"Hey." She greeted when she saw Clint staring at the solution and coated his blistered skin with a sticky clear gel from a tube. "We're gonna keep you in the stretcher to minimize further damage until they can get you proper medical attention."

"I'm fine. You can't put me in a hospital anyways."

"Nah, you're returning to Central." The nurse wiped down the scratches on his face with a warm towel and turned to attend to another person.

_They're shipping me back to New York? _This was so humiliating. The fact that this wasn't even a proper assignment made it even worse.

—

Coulson visited him in the infirmary a few hours later. "Guess who our friend Donald is?" He asked, handing Clint a cup of water.

"Who?"

"An alien. I knew from his looks that he wasn't your regular guy, but I didn't expect to see him flying around the sky."

"What happened to that giant metal thing?" Clint was too groggy to be surprised about flying aliens. The drugs were muddling his head.

"It's called the Destroyer. Thor— that's Donald, killed it, deactivated it. Whatever. I sent people to bring it back."

Clint nodded. "You think there'll be more of them?"

"Of course. We need to better prepare ourselves when they do. It's not _if_ they'll attack anymore. It's _when_."

Clint laughed. "What's Fury going to do about it? Line up his Avengers? Throw in his agents?"

"Actually, Director wants to focus on new weapons against future invasions. We're also under Thor's protection. Earth, I mean. Not S.H.I.E.L.D." Coulson pulled 2 packs of donuts from his coat pocket and dangled them in front of him. "Chocolate or vanilla? I've been trying to decide."

"Vanilla."

Coulson handed him the package and ripped open his own while humming a little tune.

"Did you just buy this?" Clint asked. You could count on Coulson to buy donuts in the middle of a mass destruction.

"Nope. Yesterday while I was filling up gas." Coulson smiled with remembrance and bit into a donut.

"Sounds like an adventure."

"It was. I beat up two robbers."

Coulson's phone beeped, and he licked his fingers before touching the screen. His eyebrows scrunched up.

"I gotta go. They need help moving the Destroyer." Coulson refilled the cup of water. "Keep drinking, it'll stop you from dehydrating. Jet comes in 20, bye Clint."

Clint feigned sleep as soon as he was gone. The guy next to him was awake and he looked like he wanted to start a conversation.

* * *

Natasha listened to conversation across from her in annoyance as she typed her report for Fury.

"C'mon, Pep. Stark Tower. Brand new. What's not to love?" Stark whined.

"I don't think I should be allowing you to ruin anoth-"

"Ok, look at it this way. If we move, you can better supervise the Expo reparations."

Pepper laughed sarcastically. "_I_ can supervise? I_ resigned_, Tony."

"And you know what else I have in mind? I'm planning on this uh..." Natasha heard papers shuffle. Stark was showing Pepper some designs he drew last night. "...this new model of the arc reactor to power the building. 100% environmentally friendly."

"Why not just build one here?" Pepper said thoughtfully and flipped through the drawings. She was moved.

"No one's gonna care if it's in my house. We're talking about a skyscraper in New York with my name on it. Think of the amount of people that's going to notice."

Natasha rolled her eyes. Stark was never going to part with his ego. She added "Textbook Narcissism" to her report.

"The tower's not even finished yet." Pepper shook her head.

"I can help with construction, it'll be finished even sooner. You can add input if you want, whatever works for you." He suggested.

Pepper was silent for a while, thinking. Tony looked at her expectantly.

"You better be committed. I don't even know why I'm agreeing t-"

Stark cut her off with a big wet kiss. Pepper pushed him away immediately. _"We have other people present." _She reminded him and wiped her mouth.

"Fury's scum don't count."

"Shut your mouth. You're so rude!" Pepper hissed and turned around to face the agent. "I'm sorry, Natasha."

She looked up and shrugged. That insult was so mild she could have written it off as a compliment.

"Whoa whoa whoa. Now it's _Natasha?_ Pepper I don't under-" Tony paused mid sentence at the sound of the security door opening. "JARVIS you need to do better than this." He muttered and stood up.

Fury was at the door. "You." He pointed at the man approaching. "With me. Debriefing."

"Yeah, about that, I don't have time. I'm flying back to Manhat-"

"Fabulous. Take agent Romanoff with you when you leave. Now come along, I don't have all day." Fury raised his briefcase and started to walk out.

"What? I thought I was done with her."

"She's just going to hitch a ride back to S.H.I.E.L.D."

_Too stingy to spare me a jet,_ Natasha thought and sent the report.

"It's perfectly fine, Director." Pepper responded instead.

"Good. Stark?" Fury angled his good eye at Tony and beckoned him with a finger. Stark groaned and followed him out.

—

Upon Pepper's insistence, Natasha joined her and Stark for lunch on the plane. Pepper was trying to be friendly but it felt extremely uncomfortable. Natasha sat across from them, looking at her food as she ate and answering the occasional question Pepper posed.

"How do you like working for S.H.I.E.L.D?"

"Ok."

"How long?"

"4 years."

"What did you do before that?"

"..." Natasha frowned.

"How do you like your sandwich?"

"Fine."

Tony ignored them and watched the TV screen on the wall on mute. He flipped the channels around and paused at a picture of a rubbled town. The headline was too interesting to pass by.

"New Mexico, huh? Isn't that where Coulson went?" He patted Pepper's arm for attention and turned on the volume. Natasha's eyes snapped up.

**Puente Antiguo, NM Ravaged By Extraterrestrial Attack.**

All that was in her head was the very high chance that S.H.I.E.L.D was involved in this mess.

Natasha dialed Coulson's number._ Clint's too good to be in trouble. _She chanted in her head to reassure herself. _Coulson's going to tell me he have no idea what the fuck I'm talking about when I ask him about this._

He didn't pick up.

Coulson_ never_ missed a call. Never.

The dread she felt before Clint left threatened to make a comeback and Natasha scolded herself for being irrational. She wasn't in her right mind before, no thanks to Vanko. There's no excuse for overreacting when her head was cleared. Clint was perfectly capable of looking after himself and to fret was to downgrade his worth. She shrugged nonchalantly and slipped her phone back into her pocket. A missed call was putting her on edge, how embarrassing.

"You think S.H.I.E.L.D is involved in this?" Pepper asked carefully. She was observant, Natasha had to admit, for picking up the nervous twitch in her hand.

"Maybe so, but usually they're discreet enough to not make it to a TV." She directed her attention to the Target commercial dog bouncing on the screen.

Pepper nodded to show that she heard and they fell into silence. She looked over the construction details on Stark Tower, Tony continued shuffling channels and Natasha watched whatever he stopped at. It was National Geographic for a full hour before she felt the buzz of her phone.

"I just sent Barton back to S.H.I.E.L.D medical. Keep an eye on him." Coulson got straight to the point, his voice was hurried.

Natasha pressed the phone harder into her ear. "Does this have anything to do with what I saw on the news?"

"Puente Antiguo? We weren't directly involved. Sorry I couldn't get back to you sooner, we've been having a lot of signal problems." He hung up.

Tony looked at her curiously. "That Coulson?"

Natasha nodded. "Look, Stark. Can you speed up a little? I'm in a hurry."

"_No_, why?" He looked at her like she was nuts.

"I have babysitting to do."

"Your babysitting is creepy as hell, I feel bad for your next victim. Sorry, can't speed her up. I can get you a car there though."

* * *

Natasha decided to not accept Stark's help ever again. The man had planned to screw her over right from the start. The car he lent her was running out of gas and she had to fill it up with her own money. The rush hour traffic was a nightmare and she was stuck in the car for hours. By the time Natasha arrived at S.H.I.E.L.D's doors it was well into the evening.

She beelined for the infirmary and looked along the nametags on the doors until she found the one she was looking for. The workers glanced at her from the corners of their eyes with curiosity. Since when did agent Romanoff walk the medical aisles?

Natasha cracked the door open and peeked in, not knowing what to expect.

Clint was sitting up on the bed, drinking something from a canteen. He caught a flash of her hair and stretched forward expectantly.

He looked a wreck. Snow white bandages covered his biceps and neck. His upper body was stuffed into a brace that looked too tight for comfort. There must be some serious broken bones for that contraption. What exactly did he _do? _

Clint waved and his arm of IVs flapped in the air. "Hey Tasha." He dog-grinned at her and the corners of his eyes crinkled up.

Natasha shook her head in her own way of greeting and pulled a chair next to him. "I told you to be careful," she said. She didn't have heart for a full-on bashing. "How's your injuries?"

"I cracked my L2 and L3. Ribs had it tough too. Burns all over the place. And half my hair was burnt off." He twisted his head to show her.

Natasha brushed her hand over the spot where his hair ended and the red, blotchy skin began. "What was it?"

"Alien robot." He took her other hand and splayed her fingers apart, examining them with great interest and deliberately avoiding her face.

"Stupid shit like that would happen to you." Natasha didn't question further.

"You're not going to ask me for the embarrassing details?"

Natasha's lips twitched up in a smile at the hopeful glint in his eyes. "I'll spare you the pain, you look ready to drop."

"They put me on sedatives before." He yawned. "And your hand's doing a fine job too."

"You let them sedate you?"

"It was for surgery."

She took her hand off his scalp and nudged his forehead. "You should have slept if you were tired."

"Yeah, but then Phil said you were coming." Clint pushed back against her hand and then swung back onto the pillow. "G'night." He was worn out.

Natasha got up to leave, but then she saw the way his fingers tangled loosely over hers and knew that he wanted her to stay, although he'd never put it to words. She could pull away if she wanted to. No one gave her as much freedom as Clint did. It seemed a small deal but she knew better. Natasha squeezed his hand and sat back down. It was the least she could do after he held her that entire night in Monaco while she sorted her memories through. She picked up his cannula and tucked it back behind his ears. His injuries were even worse than he was letting on if he needed help breathing.

Watching Clint sleep was infectious. Natasha stifled a yawn and propped her head up with her free hand. How did he stay up with her like this for hours?

—

Clint woke up to the sound of conversation. Two male voices. One was Coulson, the other was the doctor. He opened his eyes to the stinging white light and looked around.

The chair Natasha sat in was parked right against his bed. The dent in his bedsheets was fresh and still held warmth. His right hand was hot and sweaty and his fingers ached. He pieced that information together and got a general idea of what happened. She must have been exhausted to drop on him like that. Not that Clint minded, of course he didn't.

Coulson saw that he woke up and whisked over. "Barton, how are you feeling?" he sat down in Natasha's chair and clasped his hands together.

"Fine. You're back already?"

"Not for long, we're just here to drop off some things. Fury needs me for a meeting."

"What did I miss?"

"Depends on what you're asking."

"The research, Phil. Is it over?"

He nodded.

Clint massaged the cramp in his hand and attempted to get off the bed. Coulson leaned forward to push his legs back. "Give your spine at least a few days more, you can do some stretching in bed though."

"How long would it take to fully heal?" Clint reluctantly withdrew and drew his knees up.

"The cracks were minor, I'd say a month, which should be enough to take care of your ribcage too." The doctor responded instead.

The permanent frown on Clint's face grew heavier and Coulson felt a twinge of pity for him. Caging Hawkeye was equivalent to caging a real hawk. He'd pull his feathers out before his wings had a chance to heal. Coulson squeezed his balled fist reassuringly and got up. "I'm counting on Romanoff to keep you in check, Clint. Hopefully one of you would have enough brain cells to not let you run around."

* * *

Thanks for the read!


	10. Chapter 10

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and really just everything associated with it. Even the storyline is bent around these movies._**

Apologizing for any spelling/grammar mistakes beforehand.

Hope you all like, review/favorite if you want!

* * *

_"Assembling their philosophies_

_From pieces of broken memories."_

**_- This Is Gospel, Panic! At The Disco._**

* * *

**Chapter 10**

Natasha crept back without a word. It was her way and Clint's learned to live with it, he wasn't one for small talk himself. She placed two steaming cups on the nightstand and tossed a plastic bag onto his lap.

"Did you eat?" He pointed at her offering.

She nodded.

Clint unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. The first swallow triggered the full extent of his hunger and he demolished it in minutes. The last thing he ate was Coulson's donuts and that seemed a lifetime ago.

Natasha watched him lick the crumbs off the wrapping and a smile slipped. He ate like a starved dog, choking everything down. She waited until he crumpled up the wrapper and handed him his coffee.

"You want more?"

"It's ok, thanks Tasha."

She shrugged and looked around her surroundings. Her laptop she left in her room this morning, along with her backpack. All she carried was the agency-issued pistols. Natasha withdrew a gun from its scabbard and spun it around, an old habit for when she's feeling restless. She needed to get out of medical—a training session would be relieving. Natasha considered what she could be doing instead of watching Clint lap up the spill on the lid and set the ideas on fire with reluctance. Perhaps she'll stay a while longer.

"So." He took a sip of the drink and bounced back her expectant look. "Are you going to tell me about the Expo?"

Natasha's gun-spinning slowed and she rubbed at an invisible stain on the barrel. She knew he'd eventually approach the topic but that didn't mean she was prepared.

"Coulson told you already."

Clint narrowed his eyes and leaned to catch her attention. Putting up with her stalling was getting tiresome.

"_Natasha."_ He breathed out after a long pause.

He saw the magnitude of impact her carefully tucked away history had on her with his own eyes. If Natasha planned on throwing her past's keys into the ocean it'd be fine by him. Clint just never wanted to see her shut down again. He just wanted to know if she's ok.

She evaded his gaze and released the slide on her gun, gliding it forward and back, over and over. The clicking sound pricked the silence and she mind reeled.

What was she supposed to say? What did he want? Natasha kept her eyes on the warming clump of metal in her hands. Whatever expression Clint had on, she didn't want to see it.

"Fine." He put his coffee down to pry the gun from her hand in the most nonthreatening fashion possible. "I just need one word. Are you still upset about what happened?"

Yes.

The answer was yes.

No matter how dead the man and how changed Natasha Romanoff was, the reminders would never go away.

Natasha wasn't afraid of Clint asking questions, he knew her enough to not. Admitting what she's been denying all these years would catalyze a reminiscence, she couldn't tell the truth without unearthing the hell she escaped from.

"No, I'm fine." She snatched the pistol from his hand and snapped the slide back into place. The _click_ it made signaled end of discussion.

Clint's face told her he saw through that lie as soon as it left her lips but she didn't care.

He let it go as expected. Why bother asking in the first place? Natasha slipped the gun back onto her hip and paced the room. The meaning behind the action couldn't be clearer.

"Go do whatever you gotta do," he said, noting the way her heels brushed against the tiles, creating noise that would never be there were she completely composed. She needed an outlet, not a sterile, blinding-white room to brood in. He's wouldn't keep her here if her body screamed to leave, no matter how much he wanted her to. He'll let her go.

Natasha turned, tilted her head in a silent _are you sure? _and it struck him that she's putting his well-being before her own. Life's got its own pleasant surprises. Clint looked up at her with encouragement.

—

The throwing knives were stolen from a target when she was nineteen. The whole set of them, brand new and nestled into a velvet case unmarked by fingerprints. Natasha had thought it was a waste to leave behind such beautiful blades. The knives were a relic for her first commission as a freelance assassin. Without the Collar under her jaw and the Room tracking her activities, she was drunk with the sweet wine of freedom. Her kills were imprudent, her stunts extreme. She wore the title of _the_ Black Widow like a crown.

The first ever slab of flesh the daggers bit into was the neck of their precedent master, a large man who had no quarrel, but was unfortunate enough to be caught up with information not for his ears. Natasha stood with her hands in her locker, wiping from the daggers the long gone blood stains. They had not tasted human flesh for years. Their sole purpose now was as comfort objects; ironic, considering their history, but her past deeds never crossed her mind when she handled them until today.

She couldn't bear to throw them.

_**A.D.**_

The initials on the hilt of a knife ran her fingernail along the grooves and traced the letters the way a child would trace their letters. She gave them a last polish with the matching velvet cloth and closed the lid. For the first time, they were working against her.

There were other agents in the shooting range. Natasha watched them from the other side of the glass panes and waited for them to leave. It didn't look like they were finishing up any time soon so she, impatient as always, gave up the waiting game.

There wasn't much to do at S.H.I.E.L.D when you're not on a mission.

Maria Hill's look of surprise was priceless when Natasha asked her for work.

"I am not authorized to assign you anything, that's agent Coulson's job." She narrowed her eyes in confusion.

"No, I'm not asking for an assignment, I just want something to do. Like an errand if you may."

Hill rubbed her chin and nodded. "Wait here, I'll talk to agent Bryson." She crossed the room and conversed with a man in front of a computer, occasionally pointing at the screens. She beckoned Natasha to come forth and shifted so she could see what they were looking at.

A picture of a giant plated armor was labeled "The Destroyer". Hill gave her a few seconds to size up the image before speaking.

"This is the mechanism that flattened a town in New Mexico. Director Fury is sending people to bring it back, but S.H.I.E.L.D is not the only one with eyes on this thing. We're going to need whatever defenses we have to make sure it gets to the headquarters without trouble." She paused to let Natasha think about it, and then resumed. "Are you up for it, agent Romanoff?"

"What's the approximate duration?"

"A day at most. There's a second part if you want to take it. Bryson, get his picture."

The image changed to that of an older man with a receding hairline. "Erik Selvig" took up half of the screen. Natasha memorized his face in seconds and looked to Hill for orders.

"This is one of the astrophysicists that were studying the local weather changes. Fury wants him shipped out to one of our facilities to aid in the research of... this." Hill typed in a command to summon a third image.

A blue cube glowed with energy. The Tesseract.

"And I'll be the escort?" Natasha wasn't surprised at the simplicity of the job. After all, it's not properly authorized.

"Yes. He is going to Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S, preferably within the next day or two."

Two days sounded fair, but Natasha had Clint to think about.

"Can I give you my decision later?"

"We scheduled 10:40 jets. Just show up outside if you're coming."

Natasha's steps lightened. Being occupied filled her up and left no room for thoughts, just the way she liked it. A nurse was replacing the IV solutions when she returned. Natasha leaned on the door frame and waited for her to finish.

Clint gave her an inquisitive look. She usually took hours when she needed a release.

The nurse caught him stretching his neck to look pass her and turned. She did a little jump at the sight of Natasha and he stifled a laugh.

"Agent Romanoff, hi."

"How's Barton?"

"He's doing great. No sign of infection so these'll be his last dose of medication." She pointed at the pouches of colorless liquid she hung up.

Natasha nodded and sat down on the bed with a tray of medical supplies on her lap. "I can do the rest," she said. Having a third person in the room when she's talking to Clint made her wary so she wanted the nurse out as soon as possible. She turned to Clint and began to untie the bandages.

"Back so soon?" He asked once they were alone.

"Don't get used to it, I'm leaving in 20."

"What?"

"I got myself a stint." Natasha threw the old gauze into the trash and poured a pitcher of water over the burns, catching it with a towel underneath.

Clint couldn't help feeling a bit disheartened but he smiled for her anyway.

"I don't have to go if you'd rather I stay here." She patted his skin dry and coated it with a layer of Silvadene. Coulson _did _tell her to look out for him, so technically she was going against orders by leaving base. If Hill knew she had specific instructions to stay she would never have offered her the job.

"Your choice. I'll be waiting here."

She laughed. "You're not going to think up some story to convince yourself that I'll be finished for good this time?"

"I don't think I'm in the position to do so." He returned a somber chuckle.

Natasha snipped the roll of gauze off from the knot and put it in back on the tray. She glanced at the clock on the wall. Ten more minutes before the jets leave.

"Bye." she didn't dawdle with words and brushed the invisible dust from her hands, preparing to go.

Clint pressed a kiss to her cheek, more solid and more real than his first. If it was going to be a permanent ritual it wouldn't be one Natasha minded. It was short enough to not feel clingy, long enough for her to remember and think about. She could get used to this, learn to miss it, even. Natasha leaned into him as a response and let him have this little thing.

* * *

New Mexico.

Hill was standing with the rest of her party out in the sun. Natasha waited a few feet away with crossed arms for her to finish instructing the others. As soon as she was done she nodded at Natasha and led her away to the gate. "Stay close to the clean up crew when they're bringing the target in and look for anyone suspicious. You know what to do."

The Destroyer was moved back to the base set up at the original crater site. Coulson wasn't there, which was a huge relief. In fact all the senior agents were gone. Hill said they were all at a meeting with Fury, but wouldn't tell what for.

They were currently breaking camp. Natasha shadowed the crew with her hand on the gun strapped to her thigh. She scrutinized every worker that walked by, every crate that was passed, every hand that so much as_ touched_ the cargo she was bringing back. Everything was a potential threat.

As Natasha crossed the main facility she spotted a familiar face. The man she had seen on the computer earlier was fumbling with a bundle of wires. A much younger woman was helping him untangle and wrap them up. A second girl was loading cardboard boxes into a van. Natasha stalked towards them, eyeing the group. They looked like outsiders.

"Erik Selvig?" She said to the man's back.

He didn't hear, and the girl helping him had to pat his shoulder and point him to her direction. Selvig turned around, dazed.

"...Yes? That's me."

"Are you authorized to remove this equipment?" Natasha motioned towards their half-filled vehicle.

"They were ours to begin with, your people took them from us." The woman behind him rebutted. She pushed her glasses up and crossed her arms.

"Darcy,_ quiet_." Selvig chastised, then turned back to Natasha. "Yes, we had permission from agent Coulson to take these. And you are...?"

"I'm here by Director Fury's orders to collect you. You're leaving by day's end."

"Excuse me?"

"I'll be back later to pick you up. If you attempt any form of objection, I will use any method applicable to get you into a jet. So it would make my job a hell lot easier if you cooperate." Natasha spun her tazer gun around for emphasis.

Once Coulson and the others returned, they started moving the truckloads of gear. Most of it were going back to New York, but the Destroyer and the more valuable items were to be sent directly to the Helicarrier.

"Romanoff, why are you here?" Coulson questioned when he saw her.

"Agent Hill asked me to come." It wasn't a complete lie.

"What about Barton?"

She snorted. "Not here, of course."

"Don't play with me. I told you to stay w-."

"You can't expect me to follow him like a dog."

Coulson sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. "I guess there's no way to turn you back, this is going in your files."

Natasha brushed him off and walked off to supervise the exiting vehicles. They were filing out of the fenced premises in a single file. An agent stood by the gate, checking off their cargo from a clipboard. The important materials were to be held back for last.

"God, you are so wasting his time" Coulson muttered under his breath as he watched her amble off.

A boom went off from the far side of the exit. Natasha whipped around to see one of the remaining trucks go up in flames. Then another one, close to the first. The security abandoned their posts and flocked towards the explosion.

Something was up. This was a trick to diverge their attention.

Natasha scoured the grounds for the truck with the Destroyer and sprinted.

The black vehicle was rolling towards the gates. The agents manning the entrance pointed their guns up. A hand popped out of the window and shot them down before they could pull the trigger.

Natasha worked her legs harder, determined to reach the truck before it took off. The sound of gunshots redirected everyone's attention and there were shouts behind her.

The truck rolled over the dead men on the ground and increased speed now that they're in the open. The fifteen feet difference between them would soon be exponential. Natasha pulled a length of cord from her suit and threw the attached grappling hook. It caught and held. She pressed a button on her belt and the rope retracted. Her feet were off the ground and she shot towards them.

Once she was on top of the truck Natasha released the hook and her spider silk slipped back into her belt. She crept along the length of the roof until she reached the head of the truck.

A bullet shot through, missing her chest by inches. He was expecting her. Natasha hissed and jumped off to cling to the side. The gunshots continued to pierce the top. She peeked into the window and saw a man in S.H.I.E.L.D uniform. _So we have double agents._ She knocked the gun out of his hands with a bullet and then trained it on his head.

"Stop the truck or I'll kill you."

The man faced her with a blank expression. "I can do that myself, bitch," he said tonelessly and touched a ring on his finger.

Natasha's eyes widened when she saw the red flash and pushed herself off. The truck exploded as she fell and sparks showered around her. She landed hard on her left shoulder, the pain incensed her instincts and she rolled farther away. She was on her feet seconds later sprinting back to the pile of broken metal.

The truck's remains scattered, along with glistening pieces of bloody flesh, over a 30 feet radius. The Destroyer, bless its durability, was the only thing that survived.

The S.H.I.E.L.D cars caught up. The first load of agents spread out around the ruins. Coulson was in the next and he headed straight for Natasha.

"Are you alright?" He asked.

She rubbed at the line of red on her cheek that a flying shard of glass had painted. "Fine. But this can't be all, Coulson. That truck was rigged to blow."

"Did you get anything out of the driver?"

She shook her head. "No, but he was wearing agent clothes. You might want to check the rest of your boys."

A buzz in the horizon. They looked up at the approaching black dots in the sky.

"Those are not ours, are they?" Natasha squinted. They were too far away to tell.

The rain of fire that shot down answered her question. She dodged the onslaught and waited for the jets to get closer. Her handguns were no use at this distance.

Once they were hovering overhead she aimed at the engine of one and brought it crashing down. The other jet registered her as the biggest threat and refocused it's round of fire. Natasha ducked behind a piece of the truck and continued shooting behind its frame. Someone shot the wing and it tumbled in the air before detonating into a cloud of sparks and smoke. On the ground, the fallen jet went off at the same time, shaking the ground.

Natasha scuttled out from her hiding place. A few dead bodies littered the dust. Coulson was collecting the rest of the group.

"I need Quinjets half a mile from base immediately. Send in more men, we need the load out of here quick as we can." He spoke into his walkie-talkie while counting off the agents lined up in front of him. "The lot of you, keep your eyes up for more attacks." He ordered.

"They had no markings on the them, and the self-bombing had to be for destroying information. Whoever's doing this is very meticulous, Coulson." Natasha stared at the blackened heaps of metal. "They don't intend to come into the open."

"And we will always find out. I need you to bring Selvig here. If they're after the Destroyer chances are they wouldn't mind a genius brain to go along."

Natasha took one of the cars and headed back to base. Hill must had the same idea that Coulson did. She posted a flock of guards around the petrified looking scientists, who huddled at the back of their van.

"Dr. Selvig, with me." Natasha stopped a few feet away from them.

"So soon? What's going on?" He spread his arms out in question.

"We're under attack, so unless you want your ass dragged off by bastards please get in the car."

The pesky one, Darcy, sucked in her cheeks to prevent from laughing. Natasha realized the ridicule in her words; she was dragging Selvig's ass off right this second.

"Well, you still didn't explain what-"

"I'll explain this much: Walk, or drop." She grounded her gun into his temple and he jumped.

The girls behind him went rigid.

"Alright." Selvig stuttered. "I'll gather my things." He turned, and Natasha's gun followed, still pressing against his head.

"We don't have time for that. Get in the car."

He nodded feebly and pivoted towards said vehicle. She trailed the gun down to his back and used it to push him forward. He kind of crumpled into the backseat and waved to the women.

"Jane, Darcy, I'll see you soon." His voice cracked, half with fear and half with shock.

They waved back, just barely. Natasha got into the driver's seat and they whipped away in a cloud of dust.

Coulson was overlooking the extraction when she returned. Natasha herded the scientist towards him and Selvig huffed in recognition.

"Your girls are worse than the boys," he said without humor.

Coulson turned. "Dr. Selvig, thank you for coming."

"Yeah yeah. 'thank you for coming.' As if I had a choice with her pointing that deathstick at my brains."

"Agent Romanoff will be your bodyguard until we get you to Director Fury," Coulson said crisply, not missing a beat.

"Bodyguard? She's a death machine!"

"She's an efficient agent. I'll have you two board the Hudson-092."

Selvig gave Natasha a long, critical look before hobbling towards the jet, but didn't argue.

"You mind him, I don't want you scaring his wits out. It's not a good impression." Coulson instructed, blocking her path with his clipboard to get her to listen.

Natasha sneered. "Like hell he has fond memories of this fucked up organization."

* * *

Thanks for the read!


	11. Chapter 11

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and really just everything associated with it. Even the storyline is bent around these movies._**

A/N: Short chapter, but I didn't want to drag it on just for the word count.

Apologizing for any spelling/grammar mistakes beforehand.

Hope you all like, review/favorite if you want! (Concrit would be awesome, guys (: )

* * *

_"I don't mean it was_

_Good enough to pretend_

_But it worked for a time_

_That's close to the end."_

**_- Don't Make A Scene, Atlas Genius._**

* * *

** Chapter 11**

Erik's confidence boosted after his jab with Coulson. It gave him a sense of control over the girl, who despite her icy presence, was still younger, still inferior, and still obeyed the higher-ups. She wouldn't really put that bullet through his head if she was the "efficient agent" Coulson labeled her as. These S.H.I.E.L.D folks were bound more to orders and protocol than the air they breathed.

He watched her lean against the railing. Her posture was lazy, but the hand by her belt told the opposite. Russet curls swathed her almost dainty features—an odd match with the expression she wore. How old was she? Younger than Darcy or Older than Jane. Romanoff had one of those ageless faces.

Erik leaned back, and the vibrating wall of the jet rattled his skull. He considered asking Romanoff about the length of the trip. If he couldn't have the destination, at least he could get a sense of the distance they're traveling. He removed his head from its lousy resting place. "Ms. Romanoff?"

"What." Her head didn't snap up with the professional fake smile he expected. Maybe he was stereotyping S.H.I.E.L.D agents.

"Would you be able to tell me our arrival time?"

She walked around him to talk to the pilot. "Approximately in twelve." She came back with the answer and resumed her post by his right.

Erik nodded, and decided to push his luck. "And where exactly am I headed?" He said, counting the creases in his clasped hands. Despite the self-assurance he fed himself, he couldn't look into those viper eyes.

"You'll know soon enough." Romanoff rubbed at her cheek, tracing but not quite tracing the scratch there.

"What are you all planning? Kill me somewhere else? Well we're going awful far." The words escaped him before he could rethink them.

She didn't respond, and Erik's cooling fear simmered. Maybe this whole Director thing was just scam. Maybe they planned to get information out of him, and then kill him afterwards. The minutes felt like seconds after that thought. He didn't know what to expect when the jet's rear opened.

Natasha welcomed the gust of wind that greeted her as she stepped down the ramp. Selvig followed behind her, stretching his neck out.

"C'mon, let's get you inside," she said. Striding across the mostly deserted deck she led him to the interior of the aircraft. The Helicarrier was not a place she came to often, but she knew enough. The door slid open with a swipe of her card and she pushed Selvig in, pressing a button on the wall to close it after her.

They went down a flight of stairs to penetrate beneath the flight deck. Selvig stopped at the first intersection, not knowing which path to take.

Natasha weighed her choices. To the left, on the same level, was the control and interrogation rooms. The right was the elevators to the the quarantines, detention, and research levels. It seemed appropriate to bring Selvig to the labs but then she remembered Hill's words: Secrecy until the last second.

She did not have authorization to the detention department, and while it would be entertaining to stick Selvig in the interrogation chambers, she didn't want to parade past the main control room with him in toll. She told him to take a right, and they took the elevator down four levels. Walking out into the infirmary, she led him through the winding corridors until they reached the triple glass doors she was looking for.

Selvig watched her press the codes and his face paled even more. His raggedy breath rattled through his raggedy nostrils and he swallowed. "Where are we?" His voice was high.

"Quarantines. I have to put you somewhere, and if I know one thing about S.H.I.E.L.D, it'll be that their security systems are stricter here than anywhere else in the ship. If you attempt to leave, well, you can't."

The last door opened, and the asepsis in the air empowered her. The smell of detergents was so strong she could taste it, bitter in her throat.

S.H.I.E.L.D's headquarters were the most sterile, scrupulous of places. They treated the common flu like a contagious disease, which Natasha thought was stupid. You didn't harden up against sickness by hiding from it. You have to let it hit you. Let your body learn to fight and adjust. Shoving people down here to wait it out wouldn't accomplish anything in the long run.

She stopped by the closest empty room down the aisles. "Get in," she told the dumbfounded scientist.

Selvig shuffled forth hesitantly.

Natasha clicked her fingers against the door frame in impatience and kicked the door closed as soon as his heels were in. He spun around, his face filled up the small window and his eyes were full of alarm.

She ignored him tapped into her comm. The sooner Coulson or Hill got here, the better.

"What's your location?" Coulson's voice blared.

"I just dropped Selvig off at the quarantines."

"I don't understand your reasoning, but it'll do. I'll be on the deck in an hour, there's something I need to settle at PEGASUS, too."

One hour. She had one hour to further familiarize herself with the ship. Fair deal, she had no trouble with the arrangement. Natasha had been dropped off at the Helicarrier post mission a few times, but was always in a bad enough condition to be banned from leaving the infirmary. She knew all the obvious, in-broad-daylight trails but those would rarely be useful in danger. The carrier was formidable but not unbreachable. Knowing the shady shortcuts could be the different between life and death, and an hour would be more than enough for her to burrow through every nook and cranny.

Natasha moved from the bow towards the stern of the ship. While lurking beneath the hangar bay she discovered a network of pipes that ran through all the levels. If she moved solely by climbing and hanging off these ducts she'd have access to almost every room in the carrier.

She located all the air vents, power generators, anything that would be of useful knowledge. Half the time, the little things were what got her and Clint out alive. Just the assignment prior to Stark's, Clint had made sure they knew where the electricity switches were in their mark's building before advancing. The simple act of flicking the switches off when 20 guns were trained on his partner had allowed her enough time to release her bounds and get out with only one bullet wound. It was a messy mission. They'd laughed about the simplicity of that fraud afterwards as Natasha's leg bled through layers of gauze on the extraction plane.

Eventually her time was up. Natasha used her newfound pathways to return to fetched Selvig. He was lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, and didn't respond when she opened his door. She had to call his name to catch his attention.

Coulson tried making conversation with the scientist on the jet. The silence in between was, to Natasha, more comfortable than hearing them. Coulson talked about S.H.I.E.L.D, sweetened it up at the right places and made Fury sound like a god. Disgusting. He really was trying to prepare Selvig. Natasha wondered what exactly they needed him for, what they were doing with the Tesseract. The way Coulson was bridging Selvig to S.H.I.E.L.D had a hint of underlying desperation. She'd have to press him about it later.

Selvig tried to loosen up, commenting and asking questions every once in a while, although it was clear that he was still not a fan of his kidnappers. He asked Coulson multiple times on his intentions for taking him and each time the agent would shut him down and reroute the conversation, which in turn brought his distrust to the surface again.

The ongoing cycle tired Natasha. Regular chatting was annoying enough to listen to, Coulson's flowery crap was borderline insanity. _Just tell him you want his contribution and not his life,_ she thought, _he looks like he's going to shit himself. _She tried concentrating on the buzz of the engines. When that failed to distract her she hummed an improvised tune under her breath, continuing off the chorus to some song she'd heard before. The voices behind her became slightly more bearable. Three hours later, as she flew them over the Adirondack Mountains, she had rewritten the entire song. Natasha might not be fond of reading, but she liked words.

The part of the mountains they were above was sparse in vegetation compared to the lush green farther away, a clear giveaway to the "hidden" facility just beyond. The research base was built on top of flattened land. Spanning ove a mile in length and complete with trees and bushes by the sidewalks, it was a miniature city surrounded by the wilderness. The staff here stayed years on end without going back to civilization. It was still too far to be confirmed, but Natasha was pretty sure she saw a McDonald's on the scans.

"Sir, I'm perching the bird. You'll want to wake him up." She swung the jet starboard to line up with the runway. Selvig had fallen asleep.

After they touched down and handed the jet to the ground crew, Coulson drove them through the streets to the head of the facility. Natasha sat in the back with Selvig and looked out the window. She _did_ see a McDonald's, and it was crowded as hell.

"What is this place?" Selvig asked, his eyes wide with wonder.

"You'll find out soon." Coulson still refused to give away anything, although it was becoming progressively obvious. They passed a sign that read **JOINT DARK ENERGY MISSION: WESTERN DIVISION** and Natasha could see that Selvig was slowly catching on. His forehead wrinkled and he gripped his jacket tighter.

They parked two blocks away and walked back to the sign. Coulson entered a code and the door slid aside, revealing a incandescent-lighted, unassuming office room. A small old lady sat behind the desk, knitting.

Natasha kept her face passive. This place might look unworthy of all the security measures outside, but she knew without doubt that it's the most deceptive and well protected room. That grandma could shoot them point blank this second.

She lingered by the door and let Coulson do the talking.

"You must be agent Grace." He pulled the nametag on his coat off to show the woman the contents and she nodded, her head bobbing up and down.

"Agent Coulson, huh? Director's down at 205. Who're your friends?" Her voice was raspy but strong.

"This is agent Romanoff and Dr. Erik Selvig." He clipped the nametag back on.

"Ah. The brood from Puente Antiguo. Well go on ahead, he's expecting you." She waved them off with her knitting needle and resumed her work.

Coulson walked to the staircase behind her, bent down to grip the edge of the lowest step and pulled. There was a quiet _squeak_, and the stairs flipped over to reveal an opening._ This_ was the type of thing Natasha expected.

Coulson ducked down and into the other side, his party following close behind. They went in the elevator there, pressed 205 into the command board and began to descend.

If the scene above was equivalent to a small town, then it was Rome underground. The heart and soul of the facility was subterranean.

The lighting was dim, the pungent scent of earth and chemicals thick. Employee pushed carts and worked the machinery. Guards were posted on every corner. It was hot, a stuffy heat that seeped into your pores the longer you stayed.

"S'place is like hell," Selvig muttered.

"This is as far as we're going, doctor. Just keep walking straight until you see section 19A-5, then take a left," Coulson said. He smiled his customary smile and turned back to the elevator.

He spoke to Natasha as soon as the doors closed, "I have someone to see. Wait at the front room for me, I'll be just a minute." He punched in 128.

Natasha pushed the hidden door up and went back to the yellow room with the old woman. Her matching yellow hair surrounded her features and she paid no attention to the younger agent until Natasha reached out to the door knob.

"Now then, Dolly. Sit back down and keep me company. We can have a nice little chat." Agent Grace beckoned her with her clawlike fingers.

Natasha's temper flared. "That's not my name," she said, not letting go of her hand. Did she not have a single clue who she was?

"No it's not. You're the Black Widow and I don't care." Grace answered the unspoken question. She cackled and looped her yarn.

Natasha's grip on the door tightened. The one title she wore with pride and this hag's just pissed on it. She wanted to break her stupid knitting needles.

Grace continued on. "What does it matter? You're still working for Americans, you're still nothing but a field operative. I'm higher up the hierarchy than you are. The Black Widow is nothing but an old shell that you're keeping around, and for what good? As long as you're with S.H.I.E.L.D you're just agent Romanoff, Dolly. Black Widow is a codename at best so start acting like it."

Her words struck hard. Natasha's sole goal for a decade of her life, her only sense of real accomplishment, degraded by some bitch that knew nothing. Years of nightmares and merciless testing— seen as nothing but a fancy name by a sock-knitter. Black Widow wasn't just a label on her forehead, it was, in Natasha's darkest times, all that kept her going. The name was her role model. She never thought of what Natalia would do, it was always the Black Widow. Strive to be the Black Widow if you want to live. Continue being her if you want to keep living. Even now, years after she's turned to the States, the silent chant of _I am the Black Widow_ held her together. It was her religion and to listen to Grace was to pour acid on her beliefs.

Natasha turned the door knob and slammed it shut behind her. The woman wanted her to stay? Thought she could make her stay because she's her superior? Too bad. She won't let her have that satisfaction.

Outside the evening air was cool. A young family with children passed by. _What the fuck?_ The little boy cried at the loud bang of the door and his mother scooped him up. Natasha stared, then darted away, fuming.

She ran block after block, going against the current of pedestrians and Coulson's instructions, and tried to unearth the Widow from within her, the recklessness she felt when she's in her skin. But tonight all she felt was anger. The flaunt in her steps didn't come and the cockiness was absent. She was just agent Romanoff; just another Dolly that passed through office rooms. Natasha slowed to a walk and turned around, relenting to the flow of the crowd. She was starting to draw unwanted attention.

She couldn't stand to go back to the room with the old lady inside, not if she couldn't prove her point. She didn't want to make trouble for Coulson either, so she waited for him at their car.

As Natasha curled up across the backseats with her arms around her knees, she realized that she wanted nothing more than to just go home.

* * *

Thanks for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

**__****_Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and really just everything associated with it. Even the storyline is bent around these movies._**

A/N: I bring you... Confused-as-heck Nat in multiple departments :D

Apologizing for any spelling/grammar mistakes beforehand.

Hope you all like, review/favorite if you want!

* * *

_"You're free but in your mind, your freedom's in a bind."_

**_- Many Moons, Janelle Monáe._**

* * *

**Chapter 12**

Coulson returned to the car minutes later. He waved two CDs behind his shoulders, and after Natasha vaguely flicked a hand at one, proceeded to slip it into the CD player and roll the windows down. The two discs were identical, so no matter her choice he'd play the same old jingles for as long as she remembered. Coulson got a real kick out of it.

Natasha rested her chin on the edge of the window. The night breeze choked her breaths and tangled her hair. It was at the stage where it knotted at the slightest provocation, she'd need to do something about it.

"Nice night, isn't it?" A conversationalist by nature, probably ranking among the top five at Central, his spontaneous good mood heightened enough for him to chat up even_ her_.

Natasha faked oblivion to his attempt and counted the lamp posts they passed by. Coulson's high spirits mocked her. _Coulson_ mocked her. Natasha Romanoff's handler should not be a man who hid CDs and grocery coupons inside work clothes.

Unaffected by her silence, he raised the speakers' volume, yabbering about this being his favorite part and pulling a sharp right turn that brought Natasha's hair flapping on her face. She brushed the strands behind her ear and rolled the window up. The air immediately turned stuffy and she regretted her decision, but made no move towards the switch.

"So do you want to stay here for the night or go back to New York City?" Coulson started again after several blocks. Being one for getting things done in record time, he was slacking an awful lot. Natasha had no intention to linger. "Base," she uttered and intended to fall back into silence, but opening her mouth broke the dam on her question. "Who's agent Grace?" She pinched her arm as the words slipped.

"The lady back there? Top level operative. She's technically retired, passed the minimum age almost a decade ago. Terribly good eye with a gun, you'd like her," Coulson shouted over the blare of music.

Natasha wrinkled her nose. _You'd like her. _

"She used to be gossip material, that's what I heard. Went solo all forty-something years working at the**—**what was it? The Dallas or Wichita branch." He continued on.

"Why?"

"That's the gossipy part, nobody knows. Kinda adds to the appeal, you know?"

"Popular."

"I'm in a piloting mood. Mind if I fly this time?"

"Go for it," she said, relieved. After the initial burst of white-hot fire, Grace's criticism left a scab that itched to be scratched. Natasha was divided: one part clung to her earlier stand instinctively; the other smaller, but growing half turned on herself. The inner turmoil was a foreign, unsettling sensation. Accustomed to her mind being a unified army that plowed through problems without conflict, these adverse divisions of thoughts demanded time to be put on trial. Time that, if Coulson hadn't volunteer to pilot, would be nonexistent.

—

Natasha sat at the back of the helicopter and tried to come to an agreement with her feelings. She was convinced, for the most part, that the old agent was talking crap, but a little voice was telling her to consider the other possibility.

S.H.I.E.L.D didn't value her for being the Black Widow. In fact, she suspected they discouraged any mentioning of her history at all. She was seldom sent to Russia, the background info on her files were vague, and no one called her by her infamous title anymore, except during missions. Over half of the agents pissed themselves at a crack of her knuckles, sure, but that was out of fear that she might revert to her old ways: something she would never, ever do as long as she continued to work for S.H.I.E.L.D.

"_The Black Widow is nothing but an old shell that you're keeping around__."_

Natasha was holding on to a name that she'd outgrown years ago.

"_Black Widow is a code__name at best so start acting like it."_

She stiffened with realization.

Clint and her, a pair of the darkest, dirtiest agents hired were the only ones with code names.

It wasn't a privilege but a red alert. A constant reminder for the agency that they housed world-class assassins with backgrounds black enough to overthrow them. That also explained the month-long debate the Council had over the validity of their partnership. Who would want to risk fusing two bombs?

What did she gain from that name _now,_ in the present, other than undesired attention and distrust?

What was her motive, truthfully, for keeping the Widow around? Why does she remind herself of that identity when it's got nothing to do with who she is now?

Why try to keep that flame alive?

* * *

Something prevented her from giving Clint a visit, so she returned to her room instead. Over the past four years she accumulated not a single extra piece of possession. What little she had was well out of view, tossed into bags and drawers. She reached into one of said drawers for nightclothes. After tugging a brush through the snarls in her hair she threw herself under the covers and tried to ease into what modicum amount of sleep she could hold on to.

No matter how hard Natasha shut her eyes they always opened, although there was nothing to see. It was stifling under the blankets and she was slowly suffocating. The promenade of thoughts that had overwhelmed her on the helicopter was absent and she almost wished their return. Her mind was alarmingly blank, a stark white roll of butcher paper void of a single blood stain.

Something was keeping her up though. _Something_. Natasha ground her cheek into the bed and tried to pinpoint the problem. Her own body and mind was becoming foreign to her. These emotional outbursts, questionings, doubts, what for? Why? No, they weren't the issue here. She batted them out of the way and tried not to grab at the big picture but at the minuscular details.

It became simple. Once she stopped labeling whatever it was that she goddamn wanted with a name but a step by step description that she could carry out, it became so simple and so _raw_. It gnawed at her; so insistent that Natasha had trouble believing they were her own demands.

She didn't have to consent to them, though. She could order her fingers to stop peeling the blankets back, her feet to stop pushing herself off the bed, but she didn't stop.

Natasha was curious. The more confused she felt, the more she wanted to see for herself what it was that wore away the commandments she'd carved into herself. And why not? Such a trifling thing she wanted.

Excitement**—**how trivial, tweaked her pulse as her toes made contact with the icy tiles of the floor, and she padded outside.

Clint had forgotten to turn off the bathroom light, and a stream of soft yellow slanted across the floor. A waterfall of shirts cascaded down the back of a chair. The ends pooled onto the floor, and Natasha bent to pick them up. A ticking clock sustained a steady tempo that warded silence and made the room feel alive.

Natasha pattered to the edge of Clint's bed and promptly collapsed. The sheets stroked her cheek, its cool fingers locked with her own, pulled her deeper into its caress. She pressed her nose into the fabric and drew a tentative breath, sighing a consoled exhale when she picked up his scent, lulling as ever, weaved into the threads.

Such a facile, harmless impulse. Such a stupid idea to resist.

* * *

The snow always collected on the window sills.

The white would greet her in the mornings as she pulled back the curtains and lifted the glass panes. She thought of them as an offering. A gift. Something brought just for her. But then it'd betray her, melt in the sun and drench her floor so she'd push it off with a stick and watch it hit the ground. She liked the way it went _splat_ from falling three stories.

She did this every morning: pushed the snow off her window sills and watched it scatter, making sure to never touch the enticing crystals because she'd be tempted into grabbing a handful and making a snowball or some silly thing that children did.

Her hand slipped one day. A brush of contact with the forbidden substance and her restraint was gone. She dabbed a shaky finger over the top, then gathered it with jittery excitement. Hungry to make her new plaything bigger, she packed more snow from adjacent windows until she had a ball the size of her head.

She cradled it, smoothed the surface until her fingers ached. It was a good, satisfying hurt, and she didn't mind. Didn't notice because she was head over heels after finally allowing what she denied herself. Too caught up in rare joy to care about stiff joints.

Her trainer knocked on her door, a jolting wake-up call. She panicked, and buried her treasure under the blankets on her bed. There was nowhere else to hide it; that crummy old mattress on the floor was the only piece of furniture in her room, and she wasn't ready to chuck it out the window yet. Maybe never will.

She returned that night to a soaking mess on her bed. Exhausted as she was, she plopped down anyway. The water found its way past her dress and she shuddered.

Natalia wore gloves when she pushed snow off her window sills from that day onward.

* * *

"Barton. Where do you think you're going?"

Clint rolled his eyes at the question and he continued to edge his way off the bed. "C'mon, you had me in here for a straight two days. Is that not good enough for you?" One foot on the ground. Almost there. "Learn to appreciate, man."

"You're supposed to rest unt-"

"Can you get me a lighter brace that doesn't weigh a hundred pounds?" The bulky contraption he had on made him feel clumsy as hell.

"_Clint._" Coulson crossed his arms and frowned. "I'm not playing. Go back-"

"_Phil,_ I'm fine. I heal quick, you know that. I just want to walk around for a while. I swear I'm not going to even run."

"You're supposed to let your bones set first."

"C'mon, be a buddy. Sign me off of medical, kay?" Clint did some footwork in front of the other agent, hoping to convince him. He grinned when Coulson sighed and backed out.

With his body in repair and his partner gone, Clint had a lot of time for thinking. Something was going on with Natasha. Something triggered inside her in Monaco and unlike the shut-downs, it didn't come and go but lingered. An unusual aura that lingered and snagged onto her and weighed her down.

Clint saw it once. Concentrated, unveiled, and downright terrifying, as she held her face up to the sky and the moonlight shone down, showcasing the magnitude of that expression. He couldn't believe it. A fleeting moment and her face was back down, hidden in his shoulder.

Natasha hid it well afterward, but not well enough to let it slip by him. Another secret for her to stow away. And now, days later, it struck him that by letting her keep her secrets to herself all these years, he's the one distancing her from him. He helped her dig her own grave, bury herself and thought he's doing her a favor. He made a mistake by being gentle and never pushing her and if he didn't push, she sure as hell would never tell him anything.

Except for Vanko. The one thing she ever told him voluntarily, and it came at too high a price.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Turning a blind eye and pretending she had no history before S.H.I.E.L.D proved to be an atrocious decision. He needed to sit her down in a chair, get up in her face, and _ask. _Before, he was wary against that method, thinking she'd close up on him if he pressed. But he was deliberately lettingher do so by not giving her a chance to vent, automatically assuming she'd lash out at the slightest provocation. He was tenfold more afraid of her possible reactions than she was.

Natasha didn't visit last night nor this morning, and Clint knew without doubt that she'd ensnared herself in yet another predicament. She was getting awfully good at that, which only added another concern to his burgeoning list. He would start with this one. Make her do the talking instead of leaving him to piece together the disastrous evidence she's sure to leave sooner or later. Make her say it because he deserved that trust from her, deserved to know after all they've been through together. Clint wouldn't leave it at an impasse this time. He'd prod her, nag her, whatever it took. Now that he'd riled himself hot with frustration he was determined to carry out. He was going to find her, wherever she's hiding and**—**

Coulson creaked the door open, breaking Clint from his heated internal call-to-arms. In his hands was a thin aluminum box. He handed the contents to the archer with a resigned look.

Black, lightweight fabric, with steel spring supports lining its middle, it was extravagance compared to the hulking apparatus he wore. He flashed a gratified smile at Coulson.

His handler threw his hands up in an unspoken _I-Can't-Believe-I'm-Helping-You_.

Clint undid the clasps lining his side and took a liberating deep breath as soon as he was freed from the bounds, feeling his lungs fill up fully for the first time in two days. His ribcage protested at the expansion and he reverted to a harrowing wheeze in seconds.

Coulson tsked disapprovingly, but helped him into the new brace nonetheless. While nothing compared with the feeling of an unrestrained body, this would have to do. It was sleek, fitted, and didn't make him feel like he's wearing a man corset.

"How do you feel?" Coulson scrutinized him up and down as if he expected Clint to collapse in a spasming pile any moment.

"Out_stan_ding." He smoothed his hands down his body. Now that he looked acceptable enough to walk out of this room, he had a certain someone to find. "Have you seen Natasha around?" It was only one chance in a million, but he might as well gave it a shot.

"I saw her heading for her quarters last night."

Clint was out the room before he even finished his sentence; his steps small, his pace brisk. He unlocked Natasha's door and peered in. Dark, unsurprisingly. He flicked the lights on and found the place to be empty, also accounted for. It was unlikely that she'd stay cooped up that long. Clint headed for the next option down the list.

He had no success with the training rooms. As soon as he caught sight of the group of junior agents in there he rerouted. Natasha might go in if there were a few others, not an entire training class.

Clint checked every place he could think of, even made a loop around the mess hall out of sheer desperation. The longer he searched, the more his blood boiled with ire. She probably left the building. All his fault. He spoiled her into thinking she could scurry off every time she hit a dry spell.

Having nowhere else to go, he went back to his room and kicked the door, but it didn't budge. Queer, he distinctively remembered not locking it the last time he left prior to setting out for Malibu. Brushing it off as a memory fault, he typed in the pass code, waited for the quiet _click_ that followed and nudged the door with his foot again.

Clint beelined for the light switch, almost**—**just almost, missing the flash of red on his peripheral. His hand froze inches from the switch and his eyes narrowed, mystified.

A shock of familiar curls, tinted scarlet-bronze by the weak beams in the bathroom, nestled into the folds of its surrounding linens. Connected to that hair was a small body that strangely enough, raised not an extra bump in the sheets despite the figure beneath that Clint knew to be all curves.

_So this was where Natasha went._

The longer he stared at her motionless form, the more bewildered he felt. The doors squeaking, his raucous footsteps scraping against the floor. All that noise he made and she remained deaf to it all. She was asleep, alright. Natasha slept on her back when she's putting on a show, even with him. At the moment, she was sprawled on her stomach, her features half veiled by the fist in which she gripped taut the bedding.

The whole morning he'd planned on a clean plunge into her interrogation. Prepared for the look of betrayal, resentment, dishonesty on her part and she had to make it difficult for him. Natasha looked too irenic, too... _vulnerable_, a word she would never catch him say yet perfectly described her at the moment. She had ran a long, brutal way from innocence but sometimes, their occurrences rare enough to count on one hand, still did things so stirring and simple his insides wrenched.

Clint's protectiveness rushed back like a thawed river. The unbiased part of his mind struggled to resurface, to regain control and coax the ardent waters. It was hard tucking his emotions back under the ice when his eyes were glued on her, but he forced his heart to harden. He would not let her deceptive look cloud his judgment, no matter how tempting it was.

That didn't mean he was banned from letting her sleep for a while, though.

Waking Natasha was the last thing on Clint's mind. Real, substantial slumber was sparse for her. Countless number of times he'd observed her lying straight as a plank on her back, trying to feign sleep from him wherever they were: safe houses, hotels, rundown shacks, a room with their dead target still pooling blood onto the carpets. Extraction was better, but not by much; he'd catch her tossing and turning in the car or plane in fitful dozes at best. Sleep was a precious thing Clint had no inclination of taking from her.

Without dwelling over his decision, he crept to the edge of the bed and sat down slowly.

Upon closer inspection, Clint saw that her lips worked a steady stream of words. Paragraphs. An essay. A feeling akin to envy kindled. Whoever Natasha was talking to, she certainly told them more than she ever told him.

Clint tipped on a tightrope between his simmering grudge and the coveting need to kiss her**—**a real kiss; or gathering her up, blankets and all, into the embrace he yearned for. Hell, he wanted to do a lot of things the longer he stayed on that bed with her. It drove him crazy.

After what felt like hours, Natasha started to stir. Clint got up quickly to grab a cup and ducked into the bathroom. He kept the door open and stole the occasional glances, keeping himself busy by wiping the sink and mirror with a wet rag and rearranging the supplies in the cabinets. _Shampoo's low_, he made a mental note to himself.

Seeing the shimmer of Natasha's hair quiver, Clint craned his neck over the frame of the door. She'd shifted onto her side, looking at him through a few stray strands of hair. The expression on her face a crossbreed of surprise and confusion.

His hand fumbled for the cup and filled it with tap water. "Sleep ok?" A filler line if nothing else; the only thing he came up with.

Natasha nodded. "They let you out already?"

"Coulson was feeling generous."

She let a puff of air through her nose. "Y'should've seen him last night. He's up to something, that bubbly attitude's just _sick_ening."

Clint chuckled. He held out the cup and waited for her to shift into an upright position. Natasha took it from his hand and sipped, her pose so relaxed he only felt guiltier for what he's about to do next.

"...Nat? You up for a walk?"

* * *

Thanks for the read!


	13. Chapter 13

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and really just everything associated with it. Even the storyline is bent around these movies.**_

Apologizing for any spelling/grammar mistakes beforehand.

Hope you all like, review/favorite if you want!

* * *

_"And I am done with my graceless heart_

_So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and restart_

_'Cause I like to keep my issues drawn_

_It's always darkest before the dawn."_

**_-Shake It Out, Florence & the Machine._**

* * *

**Chapter 13**

Natasha blinked, then arched an eyebrow.

"A walk. Y'know, outside and all." His smile came out as a nervous twitch of his lips. His fingers curled and uncurled with underlying tension.

Natasha shrugged in accord. Clint probably had some stupid stunt planned. Medical would never clear him his third day with broken bones near the vitals. Coulson was absolutely nuts to let him get away with it.

Convinced that he was without proper authorization, she made them take the subway. She didn't want him busted before they even made it pass the facility for checking out a car. Clint complied easily enough.

"Where to?" She asked as the train approached.

"I dunno."

"C'mon. This is probably the only chance we have. What the hell'd you read all those travel guides for then? I'm going to burn them all."

"We're in New York, Nat. I don't need a travel guide to find my way around."

"Well just pick a place then." She waited for the passengers to get off, then pulled him in with her.

"Park? It's nice out."

Central Park bustled with people, it being a sunny Saturday, with a gentle, swinging breeze to perfect the weather. Leaves rustled and birdsong rehearsed overhead, making for a pleasant walk under the trees. Clint was right. Nice was an understatement. Natasha felt for the first in a long time a sense of abandon and ease. Even the current of preschoolers that darted, twisted, and occasionally knocked into her brought nothing more malicious than a steering hand to their wriggling bodies. She could tell Clint held in a laugh every time it happened. Seeing him out in the sun again lifted her spirits, she didn't realize how much she missed him until now.

They sat on the rim of the Bethesda Fountain with the sun shining directly above. Natasha skipped a handful of pennies into the water, to the envy of nearby children who in turn begged their parents for coins. Clint watched her, lost in his own thoughts again now the preschooler episode ended. She looked at him in concern. It was hard to feel good for once while he brooded beside her. Her mouth formed the start of a question but Clint beat her to it with the same intention in mind.

"Look, Nat. What's been going on?"

Natasha shifted the pennies in her palm uneasily.

_She _was his problem.

Clint took her silence for stubbornness and repeated his question. Now the stalemate broke he came more forcefully, more demanding. His gaze hardened into a glower, the last thing she expected.

"Natasha."

She couldn't stand having him look at her that way. She couldn't stand hearing her name so harsh on his tongue. Untrained and unprepared for this kind of confrontation, she did the only thing she could think of and knew to do. She clamped her lips shut.

"I'm worried, Natasha. I'm worried about you. I don't know what the hell's been going on and that's the problem. You don't tell me _shit_ and I'm too much of a wimp to ask. Four years and I still know nothing about you. I can't let you on like this anymore." His voice quiet, embedded with shards that pricked her skin and she shivered despite the sun grilling her skin through her jeans.

Natasha grated her nail against a penny. _2008, _the year read. She threw it high, so it caught the light and collided against the angel statue at the center of the fountain. Smack on the left wing.

Clint shook her, impatient by her lack of response. "I'm serious, Natasha. This is not going to work out."

"What's _this?_" She finally found her voice. Icy as hell. "What's not going to work out? You were fine with not knowing, what happened?"

Their eyes warnings flashing at each other, wanting the other to back down first. Natasha didn't want it to get any messier. She could tell Clint thought the same, but the unyielding determination in his eyes told her he meant business.

"You know what happened." He reached to pull her close the way he knew she liked, not quite leaning into but close enough for some of her weight to shift onto him. Natasha knew what she liked, too, but she pulled away from him. She was angry. Angry at what he's doing. Everything went fine the years with him not questioning and leaving her alone. One slip on her emotions, _one,_ and he began to view her as a helpless child.

Natasha dropped the rest of her pennies back into her pocket and rose, the relief and comfort she took from being with him long gone. She wanted to get the hell out. A cruel trick to walk off on Clint when his condition guaranteed he'd never catch up, but he was crueler. Why did he have to bring things up when he knew how rare her better days were? Why bring them up at all?

"You can't get away from this, Natasha. Hiding won't fix anything." Clint raised his voice, only making her walk faster. He didn't follow after her and couldn't, not in that shape. Natasha sent a silent thanks to his injuries, too racked up with anger to feel guilt.

Clint watched her disappear into the distance. What did he expect? Natasha to curl up next to him and gush out everything he wanted to know? Make a speech and write a memoir? He knew from the start it would be hard, yet some part of him still hoped for the easier outcome. Dreams and 'd be the death of him.

He leaned forward and cupped his face in his hands, letting out a frustrated sigh. Going back to base was the most reasonable thing to do, but he felt like being unreasonable. If Natasha could get away with being unreasonable, so could he. Plus, he didn't plan on going back without getting something out of her. Among all the unknown variables surrounding Natasha Romanoff, he knew with confidence she would not leave without him. Sooner or later she'd scuttle back and when she does, he'd press her again. Almost a foolproof plan. Almost.

He didn't know how long _he_ could keep at it. It took him hours to build up the courage to ask once, he didn't know how he could do it again. He'd go crazy before she does because the look of disbelief and distrust on her face was everything he avoided for four years.

A flash of copper to his right, Clint reached for the penny on the ground. Natasha'd dropped one. He rubbed his thumb over the worn surface like he saw her do. An old one, _1938_. He thought about tossing it into the fountain, but slipped it into his pocket.

Clint walked in the direction he saw Natasha go. She could be anywhere by now, always twists and turns, slithering like a snake. It didn't matter, he just needed a direction to go in. He wouldn't know what to do or where to start with all the open space around him.

Fifth Avenue, more crowded than anywhere inside the park, rushed with people heading to work, shopping, or just out for lunch. Everyone knew their destinations. Clint haven't a single clue. He went with the crowd, always on the move because it gave him a sense of purpose, because if he stopped long enough to think he'd question why he walked circles around the city.

The sky turned yellow on the edges and still no Natasha. _Did she fucking go back to S.H.I.E.L.D?_ Clint thought as he passed the same mall the fifth time. Despite the growing emotion she showed here and there, she was turning into a stranger. He couldn't pinpoint what's changed, but her conduct, her way thinking shifted. The woman he had grown so fond of was turning into someone else. He remembered what he saw on the hotel porch and slammed the memory down before he could dwell on it.

Perhaps the headache climbing up the back of his neck muddled his head, Clint made his way back to Central Park again, thinking about throwing the penny in his pocket into the fountain.

People emptied out of the park like a house on fire at this hour. Going against the flow for the first time that day, Clint traced his way back and stood before the fountain. He visualized the sun falling against the curve of Natasha's bare shoulders and tried to see her now, glowing silver in the moon. The penny warmed against his palm and he couldn't bring himself to throw it. It was so old, he thought he should give it back to her.

But he didn't want to go home.

"Watch'cha doing there, son? Staring at that damn fountain doing nothin'." A voice piped up behind him, raspy like the wind billowing past.

Clint turned enough to catch a glimpse of the speaker. Just a bum, leaning against an arch below the terrace, a shopping cart parked behind him.

"Haven't seen you around before, who do you run with?"

"Nobody," Clint answered, knowing what the man meant.

"Well, it's getting dark out. I say you make a run for it and go home," the bum shouted. The wind growled loud enough to cover up normal talking volume.

Clint shivered. "I don't see you doing that, mister."

The tramp cackled. "I _am_ home. _You're_ not. Where your folks at?"

"Gone." He muttered, unsure who he meant himself, his family or Natasha.

"Well you gotta find someone to go home to. You don't last long otherwise."

"Yeah? And you?"

"Shoot me dead this moment, I won't be missin' anything."

Clint's hand outlined the gun on his hip, but his mind wandered elsewhere. Would he be able to let go so easily? No, of course not. There's too much to miss. He thought of Natasha nestled into his bed, sweet and quiet. Way too much.

"Well you're a hell of a talker." The bum grumbled, followed by a rustling of plastic bags, after not getting any further response.

Clint left him.

He traced along the edge of the lake where he saw boats going by earlier until he stumbled upon the Bow Bridge. Halfway across he leaned onto its side, squeezing his eyes open and shut. The headache really got to him then, a thrumming against his temples he could no longer ignore.

Clint wondered who's bed Natasha would sleep in tonight, his or hers. He wished he hadn't walked in on her this morning because now he had a preference between the two.

His fingers trembled as he zipped up the thin jacket he wore. He had overestimated himself to still be fully functional. Chilled to the bone, he crossed his arms over his chest, careful to keep the pressure off his throbbing ribs. They hurt like a bitch with every shaky breath he took. He contemplated how long he could hold out before returning to S.H.I.E.L.D, how long Natasha would stay away from him._ Probably forever, _he thought with rue.

A bench was set conveniently at the end of the bridge and Clint fell on it, worn out. The angle he twisted his spine in that position would have Coulson up in a fit. _I'll just stay a bit,_ he thought, taking small sips of air through his mouth to lessen the pain, feeling his eyes droop in exhaustion.

He didn't react as fast as he should have when he felt the hand on his cheek, trailing up to brush the sweaty hair from his forehead, the touch familiar so his defenses didn't flare in reflex.

"C'mon, get up. Don't sleep here."

A hologram in the moonlight, she leaned over to peel him off the bench. Her expression flickered like a candle in the wind.

"Natasha."

Her eyes snapped up on cue, her wide-eyed gaze brimmed with disapproval. He thought he saw a trace of something else beneath. Soft and dear.

Clint's first reaction was to grab it and never let it go.

Natasha let him yank her close, rough and desperate, and squeeze her like a child's doll.

"I thought you left." He panted hard against her neck.

"I'm here." She ran her hands over his back gently. "I'm here. Calm down, you're hurting yourself."

She felt him shake his head against her cheek. "I thought you left," he repeated.

"Not so _tight_. You're hurting yourself, goddammit." She batted at his arms and pried his fingers from her clothes. The bastard, he snagged.

"I thought you left. You looked so fucking pissed I thought you'd never want to see me again."

"I still am." She retorted, but the ice had melted from her tone.

"I thought you left."

"Shut _up_. You know me better than that."

"You haven't been exactly predictable lately, Nat." His grip tightened again, as if anticipating her reaction to his next lines. "I'm going to ask you again, what's been going on?"

"Not here, Clint. You're freezing. I'll tell you later." She meant it too. Tucking away her secrets and hoping they'd never return was a childish wish and she'd experienced the consequences. She remembered how free and in control she felt over herself after telling Clint about Vanko, like lifting a corner of a suffocating blanket from her face. In arrogance she had pushed him away, denied his help, when deep down she knew she needed it.

"Promise?"

Natasha heard the doubt in his voice. What happened to the iron trust between them? What did she ruin? She wrapped her arms over his body, pouring all her reassurance into the embrace. The last thread of uncertainty in her mind fled and she was certain this would be a choice she'd never regret. She nodded.

Breaking their embrace, Natasha pulled his hood over his head and took his hands in hers. Ice against ice. Stiff and brittle. She started to lead them towards the nearest path out the park, but Clint tugged her the other way, back across the bridge. She wanted to stop him, to pull him away, but he plowed on insistently.

He stood her in front of the same fountain they were at in the morning, and he was at again less than an hour ago, talking to a bum while she watched from on top of the terrace. Clint dug around his jean pockets, then pressed a coin into her palm. Natasha wanted to scoff at the absurdity of the action, but the earnest look he had on made her school her expression.

"You dropped this."

"...Thanks?"

"It's an old one," he added, as if it meant the world.

Natasha turned the penny into the moonlight, the fading _1938_ barely visible. She tucked it back into his hand. "You keep it."

Clint threw it into the water, the soft _plop_ it made loud and clear now that the wind left.

_What's he getting at? _She gave him a quizzical look and tugged at the inside of his elbow. "Let's go."

He nodded, staring at the ripples spreading in the water, then took her hand and turned away, immersed in thoughts he would not vocalize. Natasha wanted to know what he was thinking, he felt distant and out of reach despite being so close. Resentment churned in her throat and she swallowed it down in shame. Clint had to deal with this for years. She could wait.

She sensed a pair of eyes watching them leave, silent and knowing, the shopping cart behind glinting silver.

* * *

Thanks for the read! And yes, two week updates are going to be a regular thing now.


	14. Chapter 14

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and really just everything associated with it. Even the storyline is bent around these movies._**

A/N: Dammit Coulson

Apologizing for any spelling/grammar mistakes beforehand.

Hope you all like, review/favorite if you want!

* * *

_"And do you look into the mirror to remind yourself you're there_

_Or has somebody's goodnight kisses got that covered?"_

**_- Love Is A Laserquest, Arctic Monkeys._**

* * *

**Chapter 14**

Clint relaxed once the hot mug was passed to his waiting hands, the stinging heat pricking his palms. He allowed himself a small sip before setting it down on the coffee table.

Natasha sat at the other end, legs crossed and eyes on the muffin in her hands. Occasionally she glanced at Clint, but quick to dipped her head down again. Her crossed foot swished restlessly, knocking against the table's legs.

He leaned to tap her knee and stop her jiggling. When she looked up, Clint raised his eyebrows at her, making clear his expectation.

"Not here," Natasha muttered, motioning to the customers at the other end of the cafe.

They might as well be miles away.

"We're not always going to have time for this. You're going to hold it off once we're back in the field."

"We have a month," she bargained.

Clint swallowed a groan. "Nat, I'm serious. I think you know that."

"It's not something I can talk about over coffee and cakes. I think you know that too."

"I'm not looking for big black secrets right now. All I want to know is what fucked up in that assignment you did for Hill."

"Nothing fu-"

"Stop lying," he cut her off.

Natasha clutched her face in her hands and slammed her elbows on the tabletop. The rise and fall of her back quickened. Her cheeks were red with fingermarks when she took her hands away.

"Sorry, I'm trying," she said. "This is hard."

Natasha never admitted anything to be hard.

He watched her try to organize her thoughts and made no further attempts to talk. _Baby steps,_ he reminded himself. _Don't expect too much._

The old man in the corner with the newspaper lumbered out, a teenage girl from behind the counter wiped his table and took away his empty plate and cup. She said something to the remaining two women a few tables away and they started to pack their handbags. Clint caught her peeking at him and Natasha like a mouse behind a potted plant. He nodded at the girl. She looked relieved, smiled, then carried on wiping tables.

Clint drained the rest of his coffee, ice cold from sitting out, then took the rest of Natasha's muffin off her hand. He was starving and she looked like she wanted to throw up.

"Gotta go, Tasha,"

She made a show of straightening her coat collar, patting off the dust, and carefully, carefully slipped her arms through the sleeves. Clint knew what she was doing.

It took them five minutes to leave the cafe.

The amount of time to get killed twice over on a tricky mission.

The wind picked up again, they discovered once they left the sanctuary of the shop, harsher on their heater-pampered skin. The sky pitch black, a distant wailing of sirens in the background.

"I met this agent at the PEGASUS facility," Natasha said slowly, testing each word. Still, she stuttered, and she wiped her hands on her jeans to hide her slip.

Clint touched kisses to the side of her head, conveying his thanks for her effort in the only he could think of. She grew bold in the dark, leaned into him and rested her hand on top of his at her side. He glided his thumb over the fabric and waited.

Natasha cleared her throat quietly. "She told me things."

Clint slowed the kisses on her hair.

"She..." Natasha paused to lick her lips, but the hesitation halted her already dawdling speech. Her nails raked over the back of his hands.

"I can't... I-"

A beeping sound interrupted her. Clint sighed. He's been anticipating the call.

"Why are you still out?" Coulson sounded deathly calm. Not a good sign.

"We're heading back now."

"Romanoff's with you? Oh, thank goodness. Why'd she let you on in this?"

"You don't understand." Clint tightened his hold on Natasha. If Coulson asked him to explain, he didn't think he could.

"Damn well don't. Do _you _understand how much I regret clearing you? Get yourselves back within an hour. We need to talk."

Natasha's face had emptied when he looked at her again. She crossed her arms over her chest, knocking Clint's own hand on her away. His throat clenched.

Clint stared at the clouds, anywhere but at the block of ice beside him. He'd forgotten how easily she shifted.

* * *

"What the hell were you thinking? I do have my limits, Clint."

Clint rattled a pen against the desk. Coulson had little patience for idle noise; the rattling gave him a headache, exactly what Clint aimed for. Hiding a smug grin, he watched Coulson abandon the papers in his hands to readjust the knickknacks teetering off the edge of his desk.

"I worried about you bouncing around the grounds, not- hey, are you even listening?" Coulson slapped the pen away from the agent across from him.

Clint sniffled. "Right here." He grabbed the pen again and hovered it just above the table, keeping Coulson on edge.

"You need to learn to appreciate the degree of freedom I give you, not abuse it. One more time, Clint, and your clearance goes away."

Clint reached for a beat-up yellowed box on his left. He shook out the contents and dealt the cards into three piles. "You wanna call up Fury? We should play a round. Too bad there's like... twelve of them."

"Put those away."

"I want _you_ to _buy_ war bonds now." Clint read off the last card in his hand, mockingly deepening the bolded words.

"Barton."

He sniffled again, collected the cards, and tossed them to Coulson, who stowed them away like artifacts inside a drawer before asking, "Who's idea was this?"

"Mine. I pulled Romanoff into it."

"And I trusted her with the brains." He looked like he wanted to say more, but instead tossed a box of Kleenex to Clint, saying, "I can't remember the last time you caught a cold."

* * *

Natasha wasn't used to being spotted in public.

She kept her eyes on her phone and consciously tucked a stray strand of red under the privacy of her hoodie. The steaming cup she held permanently glued to her lips, shielding as much of her face as possible.

The woman across from her didn't push. She had eyes on a newspaper Natasha saw her grab from the front rack the moment she clicked her six-inch heels into the cafe, and shed her bags at her table before getting in line to order. Neither spoke as they busied themselves with their own tasks.

Natasha sent Clint a picture of the woman. Normally she didn't text, but she ran out of things to do on her phone.

He replied immediately.

_Other one is here. Talkng w/ Coulson. _

Natasha frowned. What the hell did Stark want?

The woman finished flipping through her paper and refolded it. A slight smile twitched on her face before she spoke.

"Natalie Rushman. Long time no see, Natalie Rushman."

Natasha's own lips quivered on the cup. "Are there documents you want me to fax, Ms. Potts?" She smeared a layer of honey on her tone, smooth and sweet.

Pepper's smile widened. "Oh, you duplicitous thing." She clapped her paper on the space between them good-naturedly and leaned forward. "Off work? Or are you under another cover?"

Natasha shook her head

"Anything planned for the day?"

She had intended on buying breakfast for Clint to save him the suffering of another day's protein-enriched mush, but decided to stay low after hearing of Tony's visit to S.H.I.E.L.D. Targets were not supposed to see her after a mission. It went against her ethics.

She shook her head again.

"Oh, well I'm just buying some necessities while Tony's at S.H.I.E.L.D." Pepper paused. Observing Natasha's wandering look, decided she needed a push. "Care to join me?" She added.

Her request was friendly, but its underlying command stuck out like a knife to the guts. Pepper Potts didn't care who you were. She'd be good in S.H.I.E.L.D.

Natasha agreed just for the hell of it.

Hogan's eyeballs slunk behind his lids when Natasha swept into the backseat of his car. He turned his gaze away quick, but she could still see him squinting at her through the rear view mirror. Not in inherent gluttony, she noted in amusement, but with vigilance. He knew better than to gawk now.

They didn't talk much in the car, and the silence became prominent when Pepper asked to turn off the radio. Without much sense in that big head of his, Hogan dared to poke at the tension when they stopped at a particularly long red light.

"Who's your company, Ms. Potts?"

"I'd like you to meet Ms. Natasha Romanoff, _Happy._" Pepper's cheery tone betrayed the stern look she gave him through the mirror.

That shut him up.

—

Natasha watched the boxes of snickers and coke tumble into the cart with a thud. She never took note of Stark's diet before, but this turned out to be something she expected from him. The junk backed the pitiful amount of fruits, vitamins, and granola bars to a corner, flanked by a growing number of instant meals that Pepper tossed in next.

"He's always hungry, and I don't have time to make anything. I told him to hire a cook or order delivery but he'd rather eat this junk all day." She explained for Natasha, looking embarrassed.

"I thought he should be the busy one." Didn't Stark say he'd be the one to take care of the reparations and every other mess he brought upon his industries?

"Oh, he is. He's really trying." Pepper filled in, quick to defend, as if Tony was beside her this moment and one discouraging word from her would tear down his efforts. "He's handling things well, and the tower's coming along faster, but I still have to take them into my own hands now and then. He's... rash."

Natasha nodded. It was guaranteed Stark behavior, but what more could you want? Tony taking responsibility. Tony mending what he broke. Sure, Pepper could be bluffing, but the glow of pride she radiated was genuine to Natasha's trained eyes. Tony's change somehow made her even more wary about seeing him again.

"So, how have you been? I'm sorry for not asking earlier." Updates on Stark and the tower relaxed Pepper, so that more of her reserve melted away.

"Fine."

"How often are your assignments? I wouldn't mind switching, you make it seem like such a leisurely job."

Gunfire and adrenaline-powered heartbeats echoed in her ears, and Natasha restrained from a retort. "A lot more fast-paced than it's been," she replied instead.

"Oh? Why?"

_Because I've been a mess. Because my partner fucked up hard. Oh, and I'm supposed to be leashing him instead of shopping with my ex-boss._ "My partner's injured."

Tony called then, asking Pepper to drive by to pick him up. Pepper nodded along, then handed her phone to Natasha. "For you," she said.

"Watch Barton for me." Coulson's voice sounded the moment she put the phone to her ear; an eerie knack he honed to its finest.

"I'm surprised you still trust me with him."

"I don't. I've got plenty to do and no one else wants to keep an eye out."

"How is he?" The guilt settled in.

"Didn't break into a run. Yet. Just don't let him get out again, please, at least for today."

"You can hold out a bit longer."

"Romanoff, I know you're avoiding Stark, and you're completely capable of doing so anywhere."

Of course, Coulson was right.

* * *

"So then I told her to piss off," Natasha said, staring at the ceiling.

Clint rolled his eyes up and gently pushed her head. "You're lying again," he grumbled.

She blew out her cheeks and crossed her arms over her chest. "I ran outside, you happy?"

"No."

"Well, I don't know what you want then."

Clint pulled her head further into his lap and sectioned off another piece of hair to braid. "You were angry because she was belittling the most important thing to you." It wasn't a question but a statement; the only way he could get anything out of her.

Her silence provided all the answers he needed.

"Sorry, but I'm siding with Grace on this one. I know it's hard, Tasha, but she's right. You're not the Black Widow anymore."

"I can't just let go. You make it sound too easy." She drew her legs towards her body.

Clint quietly braided for a few minutes, trying to think of something to say. Natasha concentrated on the slight tugging on her scalp to put her mind off her mounting temper. So much for the willpower she mustered to relate in full sentences the run-in with agent Grace. She pinched her lips together and ignored the stirring betrayal.

"You can't let her go because it's hard throwing away what you've worked to be all your life."

Natasha squirmed in the sheets, the sound of what she'd kept mute for so long off-putting to her ears. She turned to her side, her nose nuzzling into his shirt, and twisted the fabric in her fist. "Go on," she prompted.

"Go on what? I'm working with minimal information here. You should be talking instead of playing guessing games with me."

"I don't know."

"You do know," Clint insisted. "You just don't want to say it." He rubbed her back, smoothed out the creases and untwisted the straps on her tank top.

Natasha's lips parted, and she resisted the urge to let go completely and spill everything out for him. He knew what she craved. No one believed she'd want something as simple as care.

"I don't know who I am without her." Natasha pressed her face into his stomach to deliberately muffle her words. She made a promise, and she would see it through. Even if it made her shiver slightly at how lost she sounded.

"You're Natasha, no one else. I think you're pretty great."

"But she's all I- "

"D'you think the Widow would lie next to me like this without murder on her mind?"

"No, listen." She slapped his arm. "Sometimes... it's hard doing what I did. I had to remind myself of who I am. Because it won't be worth it otherwise. If I was just another regular contract assassin it won't be worth it. Does that make sense?"

Clint, taken aback by her sudden outburst, didn't respond.

Natasha gnawed the insides of her cheeks and squeezed her eyes shut, anticipating his hands pushing her off him, telling her she's an idiot. Telling her she's been controlled by a persona in her head for a decade of her life. She'd hoped for him to understand. The hollowness inside mocked her and she curled up tighter.

Clint's silence became unbearable. Natasha arched her head up to look at him, but apart from his usual frown, she found no expression. With a resigned shrug, she lowered her head back onto his lap.

"Do you still feel this way?" He finally asked.

Natasha shook her head.

"You're safekeeping the Black Widow inside an attic and convincing yourself she'll be of use in the future," he said. "It worked in the past, that's great. Now you need to get yourself out of that attic and start looking at what's in front of you. You've outgrown her, Tasha. You're better than her. Stop letting her limit who you are."

Natasha pushed her face into his stomach again, turning away from the knowing look she was sure he had on. She extracted the arm under her body to loop it around his waist and pull him closer.

"You can't let who you were in the past interfere with who you are now."

Natasha had nothing to say to that.

Clint stroked her hair, undoing the braids as he went, untangling the knotted mess she felt inside until she turned her eyes to him again. He flashed her an encouraging smile.

Maybe she'd understand what Clint meant in the future.

"Thanks," she said.

"Nah, thank you." Clint bent to kiss her shoulder, grinning. "Can I ask you something else?" His voice fluttered against the tops of her arms.

She nodded, feeling open enough to grant him perhaps a little more. These moments wouldn't last. Who knew when would come the next time for them to have hours to talk.

"You've been kinda... off, lately. It's the way you react to things." Clint paused. "What's-"

His phone rang from inside his jeans, hung over the back of a chair. Cursing, he made no move to pick it up.

"Go get it, you don't want to piss Coulson off any further." Natasha urged him off the bed.

Clint answered the call with an exaggerated sigh, then stuffed his phone back into the jeans, which he pulled on next. From the chair he also shook loose a rumpled jacket and roughly yanked it on, hiding a wince.

"His office. Now. What a killjoy."

"Is this about yesterday?" She swung her legs over the side of the mattress. Coulson had appeared none too pleased at them last night with his face marred by a rare glower. He was clipped with Natasha, and downright cold to Clint, herding him off to the same office they're about to enter again.

"No. I don't know what the hell he wants."

—

"I need to you to bring someone in." Coulson slid the folder across.

"Another escort mission?" Uninterested, Natasha rested her chin on her palm, the other hand flipping through the papers inside lazily.

"It's important, and the only thing available if Barton wants to butt in."

Clint pretended to not notice and continued doodling on a post-it. Provoking Coulson would be a bad idea now.

Natasha glanced through the overview and narrowed her eyes. "More scientists. What is S.H.I.E.L.D pulling?"

"Look, we need the guy to come in as soon as possible. Sometime within the next two days would be great, but really, this shouldn't take more than twenty-four hours."

Something's definitely up. His excitement called for much suspicion. Natasha scoured through the papers for signs, but they mentioned no background information whatsoever; nothing like the novel-length briefs Coulson usually doled out like a paper boy.

"Cytologist Andrew Sheerin, covert S.H.I.E.L.D asset. Last known address: Dave's Grocery and Liquor, Oakland, California," she read out loud. "This is all you're giving me?"

"The rest is discreet information."

"Anything S.H.I.E.L.D does is discreet."

Coulson leaned back on his chair and wagged a finger at her as he spoke. "You've been exceptionally inquisitive lately, is there something I should know about?"

Under the table, Clint nudged her with his foot. Natasha scooted her chair away from him. "If you don't want to reveal anything, Coulson, I don't care." She gathered the papers and stuffed it into the folder in haste to get away from the sudden attention towards her. She could still do the job fine without knowing, it's just she preferred a better grasp of the situation before going in. And the more secretive Coulson grew, the more she itched to know.

"Geez, it's _us, _Phil. Don't we deserve to know?" Clint said, following Natasha's suit and helping her with the papers.

Coulson watched them in silence.

Then his composure dropped like heavy satin.

"We found Rogers."

Natasha turned back from the door and gave him a long look. Coulson's eyes were round with poorly contained excitement, and he tried to hide his smile under a flurry of hands adjusting card holders and snow globes.

"You leave at 7:30 tomorrow. Be here early."

* * *

Thanks for the read!


	15. Chapter 15

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and really just everything associated with it. Even the storyline is bent around these movies._**

A/N: Short chap, but early. Woo!

Apologizing for any spelling/grammar mistakes beforehand.

Hope you all like, review/favorite if you want!

* * *

_"Sometimes it feels like they wanna remind me_

_Send all those villains after me."_

**_- I'm Not Your Hero, Tegan and Sara._**

* * *

**Chapter 15**

"I knew Coulson was hiding something." Natasha huffed in between kicks at a sparring dummy. It was exhilarating to feel the sure strength in her limbs. Simpler, automatic, and released some of the clutter in her head, a problem she never had before yet has been troubling her in full force lately.

"Yeah? How long d'you think he'd kept it for?" Clint asked, wiping his bow with a rag.

"Sometime after dropping Selvig off," Natasha answered. "He told me to wait for him outside while he met up with someone. Then he came back with that stupid grin."

"No wonder he's been so... flexible. Think about it, though. Captain America. How's he still alive?"

"Super Soldier Serum."

"Right. You need to stop hanging out with Coulson."

Natasha ceased the session with the dummy and moved on. Unstrapping five or six knives from a black case, she weighed them in her hand. They did not agree with her. Their shine was dull and their handles did not yield with use. They were not hers.

"I don't. He just talks too much," she replied halfheartedly, examining the knives. Should she get her field set? No, it'd be a hassle.

"Well, either way, I'm not excited about his fawning." Clint blew onto the bow, ridding it of whatever dust he claimed there to be. With his constant care, Natasha doubted there'd ever be any dust. But she knew watching her and not being able to practice drove him mad, and interacting with his weapons pacified his sullen mood somewhat.

"Shut up, you wouldn't be let out early if not for him." She continued to study the S.H.I.E.L.D knives, and made her way towards her locker.

Clint dodged her comment. "Do you think we'd get to meet Rogers?"

"You don't even know what they're doing with him, Clint. You're turning into Coulson."

"I'm just interested. How are you _not_ interested?"

"There's more strange things in this world than frozen men." Natasha cracked the lid of her velvet box and peeked in. The steel inside caught light and glinted too brightly into her eyes. She snapped the clasp back and pulled it out of her locker in one abrupt motion. "Sharpen these," she commanded, setting the box next to Clint.

"These don't need to be sharp." He looked at it, then at her, his hands unmoving from the grip of his bow.

"The tips," she corrected. "Just the tips. They're kind of blunt."

Her excuse was no better than Clint's obsessive bow-cleaning.

His gaze settled on the regulation knives she clutched instead of her own. A sudden shift in choice of weaponry, almost nonexistent of her. Natasha spotted the impending question on his face and blocked him before he could say anything.

"Don't ask me why. I honestly don't know." And she didn't. She also didn't know why she brought them out for him at all.

Clint reached for the box to settle onto his lap. He opened it slowly, anticipating something out of the norm. There was none. Not to his eyes. He would never feel the hostility there the way she did.

He ran a finger down the length of a small blade before gingerly lifting it from the casing. "Tips are blunt," he muttered. _"Tips are blunt."_

Natasha heard the soft grinding of metal on stone as she whipped the knife in her hand towards a target.

A full two hours passed before she finished up. Clint had long finished with his sharpening. Idly spinning a knife with its tip on the space next to him, he watched her toss the ones she used back where they belong. They clinked against each other. She was careless.

Clint stood up, twirling the same knife between his fingers, and took his place in front of the target. He flung it, savored the _swoosh_ it made cutting through the air, and brightened with satisfaction at his results. He took up the other knives.

He glimpsed the navy blue of Natasha's shirt out the corners of his eyes, but she left him alone, so he did the same, until he sensed her drawing closer and resting a hand on his arm. Eyes still ahead, he did not see her. He resisted throwing the rest of the knives and pulled them out of the target instead.

"They're real nice," Clint said, and handed the velvet box back to Natasha.

A faint nod. She took it off his hands and flew them back to her locker in quick strides. He saw her lift the lid, look inside for a moment, then close it with a frustrated frown and slam the locker door shut. He thought he saw disappointment, too. He didn't know what she expected.

* * *

An electric doorbell went off the moment they stepped in. Clint's eyes shot to the treacherous device overhead, feeling exposed. Behind him, Natasha tapped a foot on the doormat impatiently and waited for him to get in. She flicked the thick envelope in her hand at him to usher him on.

The man by the counter looked about fifty, with a thick hair of black and a belly that pulled taut his shirt. He lounged on a plastic chair with his feet up on the cash register. As Clint approached, he saw that the man was cutting his fingernails.

"Dr. Sheerin," Natasha addressed him. Sheerin lifted his face up to her, dazed.

"S.H.I.E.L.D, hi." He dropped the nail clipper he had been using into a box with a sticker labeled "$2." Clint's mouth twitched in disgust.

Natasha nodded, and handed the envelope over. "This should explain everything."

Sheerin tore into it like he's unpackaging goods for the store shelves. He pulled a hand-written note from the top of the stack and held it with an outreached hand, squinting. "Huh." He smiled.

The agents shifted and glanced around their surroundings, waiting for him to finish.

"Coulson's kids, eh? Well this is exciting. They haven't called me in for years." Sheerin laughed to himself and cramped the note back in with the others. "I'll come, I'll come. I don't think I have an option." He brushed past the dusty curtains behind him into a hidden doorway, and snorted when the two agents tailed him like puppies. "You're tending the store for me while I pack my equipment."

"I'm afraid we cannot do that," Natasha said, her tone oddly static.

"Why ever not? I can't leave it unattended."

"We are not here to be cashiers."

"I don't want to argue, miss. If you'd just help out a little we can leave sooner."

Seeing the fists she made behind her back, Clint stepped forward to pull her away. Damn, her stubbornness always got in the way. This assignment was enough of a joke already; the target's bossing around only fueled it. "Tasha," he murmured, and shook his head. "Leave it."

She didn't look at him, instead gave Sheerin a long, cold stare before whipping around, her hair like flying streamers, and sat down on his plastic chair, deliberately bringing her legs up to clatter against the cash register the way Sheerin did earlier. "Thirty minutes," she ordered him.

"An hour," Sheerin dealt back.

Natasha didn't answer and shifted her feet to directly on top of the keyboard.

"I'd snap that moron's fucking neck if I could," she muttered once Sheerin left.

"Mm. I don't blame you." Clint chuckled and pulled a stool next to her. "Relax a bit, willya?"

"I don't like this. I want a regular cover job." She tapped the glass tabletop with the tips of her fingers. Undercover missions were her favorites, where her emotions became easier to control with her cover identity as a choker chain. When she was a business woman or a maid or a waitress she did not have to dig into what _she_ felt. Her actions and reactions merely came from a reference book of personalities. A reference book that did not contain any Natashas. She often wished it did.

"My fault, alright? We'll be back to normal soon enough." It pained Clint to say his next words, but he decided to give her the choice. "Just pretend you're someone else, then, if it makes this more tolerable."

"No." Natasha knocked her nails harder against the glass.

The infuriating ring of the doorbell alerted them of a customer. Clint glanced towards the stacks of beer by the entrance. A small, ratty brown head bobbed up and down, pass the beer, the adjacent fruit racks, and into the pasta-cereal-condiments-baking aisle, serenaded by the pattering of quick feet on cheap plastic tiles. Rustling. Pattering. More rustling. A fridge opened and closed. A slower, softer patter towards them, now from the other side of the store. Marker-stained hands surfaced and settled a grocery basket onto the table.

"Who are you? Where's Mr. Dave?" The boy stared.

"I'm his friend," Clint answered, connecting the name of the store with the scientist in the basement. "Mr. Dave's out." He plucked a package of macaroni from the basket and rang it up.

"Oh."

"Yeah." He reached for the bottles of chocolate milk. Then it occurred to him that this was a golden chance to build up his conversation skills. Kids were easy to talk to, right? "What's your name?" He asked.

"Tomas." The boy flailed a hand at a cardboard box of candies next to Clint. "Give."

Clint tipped the box over for him and Tomas picked out all the chocolates to stuff into his pocket. Maybe Sheerin left them out especially for him. Maybe.

"Are you out alone, Tomas?" He rang up the fruit loops and cheerios next, then a bag of chips, wondering how that wee kid was going to carry them home.

"Yeah."

There was a piece of paper with a shopping list and drawings all over on the bottom of the basket. Clint handed it to Tomas, who stuffed that into his pocket too.

"That'd be $22.48, please."

The boy dug around his pants and put a wad of dollar bills on the counter. Clint counted them. $15. "I'm sorry, that's not enough." he handed the cash back.

"Oh."

"You can... I dunno, call your parents? Go get more money? Uh..." He stuttered and sucked the moisture in his mouth. Turning to Natasha, who had remained quiet the entire time, he pleaded with a look. _Help?_

A kindergarten-schoolteacher smile blossomed on her face immediately. Natasha held out a hand, in which Tomas placed his grocery list, and she jotted down a message on the amount he owed. "We'll keep your things safe here, honey. Show this to your mom or dad and you can come back and pay us then." She slipped the list into his bulging pocket for him and smiled even sweeter. Tomas grinned and took off.

"No matter how many times I watch you do... _that,_ I'll always be traumatized."

Natasha regarded Clint with a lazy look and shrugged. "You really need to work on your talking."

"I'm trying."

"But with the wrong people. Who the hell talks to a kid that can barely manage a sentence himself?"

"Then who am I supposed to talk to?"

"Talkative people, Clint. Ones that can lead a conversation and ones you avoid faster than aliens and flying car parts." She was brutal with her words, so musical and mellow minutes ago. "Go talk to Sheerin."

"What?" Clint asked with uncertain laughter. All he heard was abandonment and a death sentence.

"Go talk to him. Maybe you can get something about Rogers from him."

"_You_ can't even stand talking to him," he countered. Plus, Natasha had a closet of characters to clothe into. He had only himself. "And we're s'pposed to stay up here."

"Well then go help him pack. We don't need two people at one cash register." Turning her head to the door at the sound of the doorbell again, she added, "Unless you want to work with these fellas." It was a loud mother with two kids, and a snarky old lady hobbling behind them, looking around with a pout and snapping back and forth with the other woman.

Clint slid off his chair and fled through the curtained doorway.

The heavy-duty steel doors that greeted him were of no surprise. Clint took one look at the design of the card swipe, and slid his S.H.I.E.L.D ID through. A narrow corridor stretched out before him with a door at its end. A rim of light glowed on the bottom. Clint crossed the space, swiped his card again, and peeked into a room of stark white. Walls, counters, and floors. It had the same sterile look and smell as every other laboratory in the world. But something was wrong. This lab was different.

Sheerin banged away in a closet, the only place not touched by light in the room. Clint heard equipment being fitted into cardboard boxes, the _riiiip_ of rolling tape, and a panting voice carrying a tune. Then it occurred to him the origin of the lab's peculiarity. Country music hummed through the scientist's phone on a nearby shelf.

"What do you want, son? We've barely pass the twenty minute mark," Sheerin heaved, not looking up from his task.

"I can help."

A sputtering laugh. "Can't do that, sorry. But if you're so intent on getting me out of here fast, send the lady down. If not, look, but don't touch."

"Why?"

"Agent Coulson's orders."

Clint suppressed a groan. He should have predicted the catch to Coulson's graciousness.

* * *

Natasha bent over the counter top for a box of mints from the shelf below. She rested her chin on her palm and blankly stared ahead at the aisles. Tomas hadn't returned yet, and Clint was still downstairs. She regretted sending him off earlier.

A crawling feeling crept on her neck and the muscles there tightened. Natasha swiveled her chair around to get a better view of the entrance. The way the checkout was located blocked it completely unless you stretched your neck out and around. She sucked harder on a mint and crunched it between her teeth.

A cloud shifted overhead, suffocating the store with shadows. Silence. Natasha skimmed her hand over the outline of the gun at her hip.

A figure emerged from the darkest corner aisle and strode towards her.

She did not remember hearing the doorbell.

As the silouette advanced Natasha caught a glint of silver where the hands should be. Her eyes snapped up to the aisle sign. Pets and Gardening.

When the stranger came into the light she felt an aloof calm over her twitching nerves.

Her neck throbbed when her eyes settled on the chain collar the woman raked her fingers over like prayer beads.

Natasha slipped her hand under her shirt and grabbed the hilt of her gun.

"Which one are you?"

The woman laughed. "And to think you once told us apart from the sound of our footsteps. Disappointing, Natalia. Disappointing."

* * *

Note: Oh, and I don't know if any of you notice, but I've been sprinkling motifs/symbols throughout the story. I'm going to put up a list on my profile in case anyone's into that kind of stuff. I personally find them fun :)

Thanks for the read!


End file.
